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CONSCIENCE 

(CONSCIENCE) 
By    HECTOR    MALOT 


With  a  Preface  by  EDOUARD  PAIL- 
f-l     4        A4    I  s     LERON,    of     the     French     Academy 


[Ff, 


Crowned   by    the   French    Academy 


a  Pholografih.] 


NEW   YORK 

Cur  rent  Literature  Publishing  Company 
1910 


CONSCIENCE 

(CONSCIENCE) 
By    HECTOR    MALOT 

Crowned   by    the    French    Academy 


With  a  Preface  by  EDOUARD  PAIL- 
LERON.    of     the     French     Academy 


NEW   YORK 

Current  Literature  Publishing  Company 
1910 


Copyright  1905 

BY 

ROBERT  ARNOT 

Copyright  1910 

BY 

CURRENT  LITERATURE  PUBLISHING  COMPANY 


CfKoEJb 

HECTOR  MALOT 


'ECTOR-HENRI  MALOT,  the  son  of 
a  notary  public,  was  bom  at  La 
Brouille  (Seine-Inferieure),  March  20, 
1830.  He  studied  law,  intending  to 
devote  himself  also  to  the  Notariat, 
but  toward  1853  or  1854  commenced 
writing  for  various  small  journals. 
Somewhat  later  he  assisted  in  compil- 
ing the  Biographie  Gin^rcUe  of  Firmin  Didot,  and  was 
also  a  contributor  to  some  reviews.  Under  the  generic 
title  of  Les  Victimes  d* Amour,  he  made  his  d^but  with 
the  following  three  family-romances:  Les  Atnants 
(1859),  Les  Epoux  (1865),  and  Les  Enjants  (1866). 
About  the  same  period  he  published  a  book,  La  Vie 
Moderne  en  Angleterre.  Malot  has  written  quite  a 
number  of  novels,  of  which  the  greatest  is  Conscience, 
crowned  by  the  French  Academy  in  1878. 

His  works  have  met  with  great  success  in  all  coun- 
tries. They  possess  that  lasting  interest  which  attends 
all  work  based  on  keen  observation  and  masterly 
analysis  of  the  secret  motives  of  human  actions. 

The  titles  of  his  writings  run  as  follows:  Les  Amours 
de  Jacques  (1868);  UnBeau  Frhe  (1869);  Romain  Kal- 
bris  (1864),  being  a  romance  for  children;  Une  Bonne 
Affaire,  and  Madame  Ohernin  (1870);  Un  Curi  de 
Province  (1872);    Un  Mariage  sous  k  Second  Empire 

[V] 

2042169 


PREFACE 

(1873);  line  Belle  Mhe  (1874);  UAuherge  du  Monde 
(1875-1876,  4  vols.);  Les  Batailles  du  Manage  (1877,  3 
vols.);  Car  a  (1877);  Le  Docteur  Claude  (1879);  Le 
Bohhme  Tapageuse  (1880,  3  vols.);  Pompon,  and  Une 
Femme  d* Argent  (1881);  La  Petite  Sosur,  and  Les  Mil- 
lions Honteux  (1882);  Les  Besogneux,  and  Paulette 
(1883);  Marichette,  and  Micheline  (1884);  Le  Lieuten- 
ant Bonnet,  and  Sang  Bleu  (1885);  Baccara,  and  Zyte 
(1886) ;  Viceo  Frangais,  Seduction,  and  Ghislaine  (1887) ; 
Mondaine  (1888);  Mariage  Riche,  and  Justice  (1889); 
M^re  (1890),  Anie  (1891);  Complices  (1892);  Conscience 
(1893);  and  Amours  de  Jeunes  et  Amours  de  Vieux 
(1894). 

About  this  time  Hector  Malot  resolved  not  to  write 
fiction  any  more.  He  announced  this  determination  in 
a  card  published  in  the  journal,  Le  Temps,  May  25, 
1895.  It  was  then  maliciously  stated  that  "M.  Malot 
his  retired  from  business  after  having  accumulated  a 
fortune."  However,  he  took  up  his  pen  again  and  pub- 
lished a  history  of  his  literary  life:  Le  Roman  de  mes 
Romans  (1896) ;  besides  two  volumes  of  fiction,  L^ Amour 
dominateur  (1896),  and  Pages  choisies  (1898),  works 
which  showed  that,  in  the  language  of  Holy  Writ,  "his 
eye  was  not  dimmed  nor  his  natural  force  abated,"  and 
afforded  him  a  triumph  over  his  slanderers. 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  I 

PAOK 

The  Reunion i 

CHAPTER  II 
The  Rich  Man's  Refusal 9 

CHAPTER  III 
A  Last  Resort 18 

CHAPTER  IV 
rrwiXT  THE  Devil  and  the  Deep  Sea a) 

CHAPTER  V 
A  Charming  Visitor 35 

CHAPTER  VI 
Sweet  Consolation 42 

CHAPTER  VII 
A  Little  Dinner  for  Two 50 

CHAPTER  VIII 
Explanations 57 

CHAPTER  IX 
Caffie's  Answer 66 

CHAPTER  X 
Saniel  Makes  a  Resolution       ...,,,,,    74 

[vii] 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  XI 

PAGE 

The  Instrument  of  Death 82 

CHAPTER  Xn 
The  CRuaAL  Moment 90 

CHAPTER  XIII 
Distraction ...99 

CHAPTER  XIV 
The  Examination 107 

CHAPTER  XV 
A  New  Plan 116 

CHAPTER  XVI 
The  Smilbs  of  Fortune 122 

CHAPTER  XVII 
Philiis's  Fears 130 

CHAPTER  XVni 
A  Grave  Discussion 138 

CHAPTER  XIX 
The  Knock  at  the  Door 146 

CHAPTER  XX 
A  Tightening  Chain 154 

CHAPTER  XXI 
"Regarding  the  Capfie  Affair" 163 

CHAPTER  XXn 
Nougarede's  Bride 170 

[Vlii] 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  XXin 

PAGE 

Stunning  News 176 

CHAPTER  XXIV 
Hedging 183 

CHAPTER  XXV 
Dangerous  Details 191 

CHAPTER  XXVI 
A  Good  Memory 200 

CHAPTER  XXVn 
A  New  Peril 209 

CHAPTER  XXVni 
Saniel  Visits  a  Barber 216 

CHAPTER  XXIX 
A  Broken  Negative 223 

CHAPTER  XXX 
Peollis  Prectpitates  Matters 230 

CHAPTER  XXXI 
The  Appointment 238 

CHAPTER  XXXn 
The  Fatal  Light 246 

CHAPTER  XXXIII 
Suspense 254 

CHAPTER  XXXrV 
On  the  Rac3C 262 

[ix] 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  XXXV 

PAGE 

A  Second  Victim 271 

CHAPTER  XXXVI 
Conscience  Asserts  Itself 280 

CHAPTER  XXXVII 
Attempted  Reparation 288 

CHAPTER  XXXVIII 
The  Important  Question 296 

CHAPTER  XXXIX 
Concession  to  Conscience 304 

CHAPTER  XL 
Phillis  is  Surprised 312 

CHAPTER  XLI 
A  Troubled  Soul 319 

CHAPTER  XLH 
The  Power  of  Hypnotism 327 

CHAPTER  XLin 
The  Terrible  Revelation 337 

CHAPTER  XLIV 
After  Long  Years        346 


[^3 


CONSCIENCE 

CHAPTER  I 

THE  REUNION 

HEN  Crozat,  the  Bohemian,  escaped 
from  poverty,  by  a  good  marriage  that 
made  him  a  citizen  of  the  Rue  de 
Vaugirard,  he  did  not  break  with  his 
old  comrades;  instead  of  shunning 
them,  or  keeping  them  at  a  distance, 
he  took  pleasure  in  gathering  them 
about  him,  glad  to  open  his  house  to 
them,  the  comforts  of  which  were  very  diflferent  from 
the  attic  of  the  Rue  Ganneron,  that  he  had  occupied  for 
so  long  a  time. 

Every  Wednesday,  from  four  to  seven  o'clock,  he  had 
a  reunion  at  his  house,  the  H6tel  des  Medicis,  and  it  was 
a  holiday  for  which  his  friends  prepared  themselves. 
When  a  new  idea  occurred  to  one  of  the  hahittUs  it  was 
caressed,  matured,  studied  in  solitude,  in  order  to  be 
presented  in  full  bloom  at  the  assembly. 

Crozat's  reception  of  his  friends  was  pleasing,  simple, 
like  the  man,  cordial  on  the  part  of  the  husband,  as  well 
as  on  the  part  of  the  wife,  who,  having  been  an  actress, 
held  to  the  religion  of  comradeship.    On  a  table  were 

[I] 


HECTOR  MALOT 

small  pitchers  of  beer  and  glasses;  within  reach  was  an 
old  stone  jar  from  Beauvais,  full  of  tobacco.  The  beer 
was  good,  the  tobacco  dry,  and  the  glasses  were  never 
empty. 

And  it  was  not  silly  subjects  that  were  discussed  here, 
worldly  babblings,  or  gossiping  about  absent  friends, 
but  the  great  questions  that  ruled  humanity:  philoso- 
phy, politics,  society,  and  religion. 

Formed  at  first  of  friends,  or,  at  least,  of  comrades 
who  had  worked  and  suffered  together,  these  reunions 
had  enlarged  gradually,  until  one  day  the  rooms  at  the 
Hotel  des  Medicis  became  a  parloUe  where  preachers 
of  ideas  and  of  new  religions,  thinkers,  reformers,  apos- 
tles, politicians,  aesthetes,  and  even  babblers  in  search 
of  ears  more  or  less  complaisant  that  would  listen  to 
them,  met  together.  Any  one  might  come  who  wished, 
and  if  one  did  not  enter  there  exactly  as  one  would  enter 
an  ordinary  hotel,  it  was  sufficient  to  be  brought  by  an 
habitue  in  order  to  have  the  right  to  a  pipe,  some  beer, 
and  to  speak. 

One  of  the  habitues,  Brigard,  was  a  species  of  apostle, 
who  had  acquired  celebrity  by  practising  in  his  daily 
life  the  ideas  that  he  professed  and  preached.  Comte  de 
Brigard  by  birth,  he  began  by  renouncing  his  title,  which 
made  him  a  vassal  of  the  respect  of  men  and  of  social 
conventions;  an  instructor  of  law,  he  could  easily  have 
made  a  thousand  or  twelve  hundred  francs  a  month,  but 
he  arranged  the  number  and  the  price  of  his  lessons  so 
that  each  day  brought  him  only  ten  francs  in  order  that 
he  might  not  be  a  slave  to  money ;  living  with  a  woman 
whom  he  loved,  he  had  always  insisted,  although  he 


CONSCIENCE 

had  two  daughters,  on  Hving  with  her  en  union  libre, 
and  in  not  acknowledging  his  children  legally,  because 
the  law  debased  the  ties  which  attached  him  to  them 
and  lessened  his  duties;  it  was  conscience  that  sanc- 
tioned these  duties;  and  nature,  like  conscience,  made 
him  the  most  faithful  of  lovers,  the  best,  the  most 
affectionate,  the  most  tender  of  fathers.  Tall,  proud, 
carrying  in  his  person  and  manners  the  native  elegance 
of  his  race,  he  dressed  like  the  porter  at  the  comer,  only 
replacing  the  blue  velvet  by  chestnut  velvet,  a  less  friv- 
olous color.  Living  in  Clamart  for  twenty  years,  he  al- 
ways came  to  Paris  on  foot,  and  the  only  concessions 
that  he  made  to  conventionality  or  to  his  comfort  were 
to  wear  sabots  in  winter,  and  to  carry  his  vest  on  his 
arm  in  summer. 

Thus  organized,  he .  must  have  disciples,  and  he 
sought  them  everywhere — in  the  streets,  where  he  but- 
tonholed those  he  was  able  to  snatch  under  the  trees  of 
the  Luxembourg  Gardens,  and  on  Wednesday  at  the 
house  of  his  old  comrade  Crozat.  How  many  he  had 
had!  But,  unfortunately,  the  greater  number  turned 
out  badly.  Several  became  ministers;  others  accepted 
high  government  positions  for  life;  some  handled  mill- 
ions of  francs;  two  were  at  Noumea;  one  preached  in 
the  pulpit  of  N6tre  Dame. 

One  afternoon  in  October  the  little  parlor  was  full; 
the  end  of  the  summer  vacation  had  brought  back  the 
habituis,  and  for  the  first  time  the  number  was  nearly 
large  enough  to  open  a  profitable  discussion.  Crozat, 
near  the  door,  smiled  at  the  arrivals  on  shaking  hands, 
and  Brigard,  his  soft  felt  hat  on  his  head,  presided,  as- 

[3] 


HECTOR  MALOT 

sisted  by  his  two  favorite  disciples  of  the  moment,  the 
advocate  Nougarede  and  the  poet  Glady,  neither  of 
whom  would  turn  out  badly,  he  was  certain. 

To  tell  the  truth,  for  those  who  knew  how  to  look  and 
to  see,  the  pale  face  of  NougarMe,  his  thin  lips,  restless 
eyes,  and  an  austerity  of  dress  and  manners  which 
clashed  with  his  twenty-six  years,  gave  him  more  the 
appearance  of  a  man  of  ambition  than  of  an  apostle. 
And  when  one  knew  that  Glady  was  the  owner  of  a 
beautiful  house  in  Paris,  and  of  real  estate  in  the  coun- 
try that  brought  him  a  hundred  thousand  francs  a  year, 
it  was  difficult  to  imagine  that  he  would  long  follow 
Father  Brigard. 

But  to  see  was  not  the  dominant  faculty  of  Brigard; 
it  was  to  reason,  and  reason  told  him  that  ambition 
Ivould  soon  make  Nougarede  a  deputy,  as  fortune 
would  one  day  make  Glady  an  academician;  and  in 
that  case,  although  he  detested  assemblies  as  much  as 
academies,  they  would  then  have  two  tribunes  whence 
the  good  word  would  fall  on  the  multitude  with  more 
weight.  They  might  be  counted  on.  When  Nougarede 
began  to  come  to  the  Wednesday  reunions  he  was  as 
empty  as  a  drum,  and  if  he  spoke  brilliantly  on  no  mat- 
ter what  subject  with  an  imperturbable  eloquence,  it  was 
to  say  nothing.  In  Glady's  first  volume  were  words 
learnedly  arranged  to  please  the  ears  and  the  eyes. 
Now,  ideas  sustained  the  discourse  of  the  advocate,  as 
the  verses  of  the  poet  said  something — and  these  ideas 
were  Brigard 's;  this  something  was  the  perfume  of  his 
teaching. 

For  half  an  hour  the  pipes  burned  fiercely,  the  smoke 

[4] 


CONSCIENCE 

slowly  rose  to  the  ceiling,  and  as  in  a  cloud  Brigard 
might  be  seen  like  a  bearded  god,  proclaiming  his  law, 
his  hat  on  his  head ;  for,  if  he  had  made  a  rule  never  to 
take  it  off,  he  manipulated  it  continually  while  he  spoke, 
frequently  pushing  it  fonvard,  sometimes  to  the  back  of 
his  head,  to  the  right,  to  the  left,  raising  it,  and  flatten- 
ing it,  according  to  the  needs  of  his  argument. 

"It  is  incontestable,"  he  said,  "that  we  scatter  our 
great  force  when  we  ought  to  concentrate  it." 

He  pressed  down  his  hat. 

"In  effect,"  he  raised  it,  "the  hour  has  arrived  for  us 
to  assert  ourselves  as  a  group,  and  it  is  a  duty  for  us, 
since  it  is  a  need  of  humanity " 

At  this  moment  a  new  arrival  glided  into  the  room 
quietly,  with  the  manifest  intention  of  disturbing  no 
one ;  but  Crozat,  who  was  seated  near  the  door,  stopped 
him  and  shook  hands. 

"  Tiens,  Saniel!    Good-day,  doctor." 

"Good-evening,  my  dear  sir." 

"Come  to  the  table;  the  beer  is  good  to-day." 

"Thank  you;  I  am  very  well  here." 

Without  taking  the  chair  that  Crozat  designated,  he 
leaned  against  the  wall.  He  was  a  tall,  solid  man  about 
thirty,  with  tawny  hair  falling  on  the  collar  of  his  coat, 
a  long,  curled  beard,  a  face  energetic,  but  troubled  and 
wan,  to  which  the  pale  blue  eyes  gave  an  expression  of 
hardness  that  was  accentuated  by  a  prominent  jaw  and 
a  decided  air.  A  Gaul,  a  true  Gaul  of  ancient  times, 
strong,  bold,  and  resolute. 

Brigard  continued: 

"It  is  incontestable" — this  was  his  formula,  because 

[5] 


HECTOR  MALOT 

everything  he  said  was  incontestable  to  him,  simply  be- 
cause he  said  it — "it  is  incontestable  that  in  the  strug- 
gle for  existence  the  dogma  of  conscience  must  be  es- 
tablished, its  only  sanction  being  the  performance  of 
duty  and  inward  satisfaction " 

"Duty  accomplished  toward  whom?"  interrupted 
Saniel. 

"Toward  one's  self." 

"Then  begin  by  stating  what  are  our  duties,  and 
codify  what  is  good  and  what  is  bad." 

"That  is  easy,"  some  one  replied. 

"Easy  if  you  admit  a  certain  innate  regard  for  hu- 
man life,  for  property,  and  for  the  family.  But  you 
must  acknowledge  that  not  all  men  have  this  regard. 
How  many  believe  that  it  is  not  a  fault  to  run  away 
with  the  wife  of  a  friend,  not  a  crime  to  appropriate 
something  that  they  want,  or  to  kill  an  enemy !  Where 
are  the  duties  of  those  who  reason  and  feel  in  this  way  ? 
What  is  their  inward  satisfaction  worth?  This  is  why 
I  will  not  admit  that  conscience  is  the  proper  guide  of 
our  actions." 

There  were  several  exclamations  at  this,  which  Bri- 
gard  checked. 

"What  guide,  then,  shall  men  obey?"  he  demanded. 

"Force,  which  is  the  last  word  of  the  philosophy  of 
life " 

"That  which  leads  to  a  wise  and  progressive  exter- 
mination.   Is  this  what  you  desire  ?  " 

"Why  not?  I  do  not  shrink  from  an  extermination 
that  relieves  humanity  of  idlers  that  it  drags  about  with- 
out power  to  advance  or  to  free  itself,  finally  sinking 

[6] 


CONSCIENCE 

under  the  load.  Is  it  not  better  for  the  world  to  be  rid 
of  such  people,  who  obstruct  the  advancement  of 
others?" 

"At  least  the  idea  is  bizarre  coming  from  a  doctor," 
interrupted  Crozat,  "since  it  would  put  an  end  to  hos- 
pitals." 

"Not  at  all;  I  would  preserve  them  for  the  study  of 
monsters." 

"In  placing  society  on  this  antagonistic  footing,"  said 
Brigard,  "you  destroy  society  itself,  which  is  founded 
on  reciprocity,  on  good  fellowship ;  and  in  doing  so  you 
can  create  for  the  strong  a  state  of  suspicion  that  para- 
lyzes them.  Carthage  and  Venice  practised  the  selec- 
tion by  force,  and  destroyed  themselves." 

"You  speak  of  force,  my  dear  Saniel,"  interrupted  a 
voice;  "where  do  you  get  that — the  force  of  things,  the 
jatum  ?  There  is  no  beginning,  no  will ;  events  decide 
for  us  climate,  temperament,  environment." 

"Then,"  replied  Saniel,  "there  is  no  responsibility, 
and  this  instrument  conscience,  that  should  decide 
everything,  is  good  for  nothing.  You  need  not  consider 
consequences.  Success  or  defeat  may  yet  be  imma- 
terial, for  the  accomplishment  of  an  act  that  you  have 
believed  condemnable  may  serve  the  race,  while  another 
that  you  have  believed  beneficent  may  prove  injurious; 
from  which  it  follows  that  intentions  only  should  be 
judged,  and  that  no  one  but  God  can  sound  human 
hearts  to  their  depths." 

He  began  to  laugh. 

"Do  you  believe  that?  Is  that  the  conclusion  at 
which  you  have  arrived  ?" 

[7] 


HECTOR  MALOT 

A  waiter  entered,  carrying  pitchers  of  beer  on  a  tray, 
and  the  discussion  was  necessarily  interrupted,  every 
one  drawing  up  to  the  table  where  Crozat  filled  the 
glasses,  and  the  conversation  took  a  more  private  turn. 

Saniel  shook  hands  with  Brigard,  who  received  him 
somewhat  coldly;  then  he  approached  Glady  with  the 
manifest  intention  of  detaining  him,  but  Glady  had  said 
that  he  was  obliged  to  leave,  so  Saniel  said  that  he  could 
remain  no  longer,  and  had  only  dropped  in  on  passing. 

When  they  were  both  gone  Brigard  turned  to  Crozat 
and  Nougarede,  who  were  near  him,  and  declared  that 
Saniel  made  him  uneasy. 

"He  beUeves  himself  stronger  than  life,"  he  said, 
"because  he  is  sound  and  intelligent.  He  must  take 
care  that  he  does  not  go  too  far!" 


[8] 


GHAPTER  II 

THE  RICH  man's  REFUSAL 

;HEN  Saniel  and  Glady  reached  the 
street,  the  rain  that  had  fallen  since 
morning  had  ceased,  and  the  asphalt 
shone  clear  and  glittering  like  a  mirror. 
''The  walking  is  good,"  Saniel  re- 
marked. 

"It    will    rain    again,"    responded 
Glady,  looking  at  the  sky. 
"I  think  not."     It  was  evident  that  Glady  wished  to 
take  a  cab,  but  as  none  passed  he  was  obliged  to  walk 
with  Saniel. 

"Do  you  know,"  he  said,  "that  you  have  wounded 
Brigard?" 

"I  regret  it  sincerely;   but  the  salon  of  our  friend 
Crozat  is  not  yet  a  church,  and  I  do  not  suppose  that 
discussion  is  forbidden  there." 
"To  deny  is  not  to  discuss." 
"You  say  that  as  if  you  were  angry  with  me." 
"Not  at  all.    I  am  sorry  that  you  have  wounded  Bri- 
gard— nothing  more." 

"That  is  too  much,  because  I  have  a  sincere  esteem, 
a  real  friendship  for  you,  if  you  will  permit  me  to  say  so. " 
But  Glady,  apparently,  did  not  desire  the  conversa- 
tion to  take  this  turn. 

19] 


HECTOR  MALOT 

"I  think  this  is  an  empty  cab,"  he  said,  as  a  fiacre 
approached  them. 

"No,"  replied  Saniel,  "I  see  the  light  of  a  cigar 
through  the  windowpane." 

Glady  made  a  slight  gesture  of  impatience  that  was 
not  lost  upon  Saniel,  who  was  expecting  some  such 
demonstration. 

Rich,  and  frequenting  the  society  of  poor  men,  Glady 
lived  in  dread  of  borrowers.  It  was  enough  for  any 
man  to  appear  to  wish  to  talk  to  him  privately  to  make 
him  believe  that  he  was  going  to  ask  for  fifty  louis  or 
twenty  francs;  so  often  was  this  the  case  that  every 
friend  or  comrade  was  an  enemy  against  whom  he  must 
defend  his  purse.  And  so  he  lay  in  wait  as  if  expecting 
some  one  to  spring  upon  him,  his  eyes  open,  his  ears  lis- 
tening, and  his  hands  in  his  pockets.  This  explains  his 
attitude  toward  Saniel,  in  whom  he  scented  a  demand 
for  money,  and  was  the  reason  for  his  attempt  to  escape 
by  taking  a  cab.  But  luck  was  against  him,  and  he 
tried  to  decline  the  unspoken  request  in  another  way. 

"Do  not  be  surprised,"  he  said,  with  the  volubility 
with  which  a  man  speaks  when  he  does  not  wish  to  give 
his  companion  a  chance  to  say  a  word,  "that  I  was 
pained  to  see  Brigard  take  seriously  an  argument  that 
evidently  was  not  directed  against  him." 

"Neither  against  him  nor  against  his  ideas." 

"I  know  that;  you  do  not  need  to  defend  yourself. 
But  I  have  so  much  friendship,  so  much  esteem  and 
respect  for  Brigard  that  everything  that  touches  him 
affects  me.  And  how  could  it  be  otherwise  when  one 
knows  his  value,  and  what  a  man  he  is?    This  life  of 

[lo] 


CONSCIENCE 

mediocrity  that  he  Hves,  in  order  to  be  free,  is  it  not  ad- 
mirable ?    What  a  beautiful  example ! " 

"Not  every  one  can  follow  it." 

"You  think  that  one  cannot  be  contented  with  ten 
francs  a  day?" 

"I  mean  that  not  every  one  has  the  chance  to  make 
ten  francs  a  day." 

The  vague  fears  of  Glady  became  definite  at  these 
words.  They  had  walked  down  the  Rue  Ferou  and 
reached  the  Place  St.  Sulpice. 

"I  think  that  at  last  I  am  going  to  find  a  cab,"  he 
said,  precipitately. 

But  this  hope  was  not  realized ;  there  was  not  a  single 
cab  at  the  station,  and  he  was  forced  to  submit  to  the 
assault  from  Saniel. 

And  Saniel  began: 

"You  are  compelled  to  walk  with  me,  and,  frankly, 
I  rejoice,  because  I  wish  to  talk  to  you  of  a  serious 
affair — on  which  depends  my  future." 

"This  is  a  poor  place  for  serious  talk." 

"I  do  not  find  it  so." 

"We  would  better  appoint  some  other  time." 

"Why  should  we,  since  chance  has  thrown  us  to- 
gether here?" 

Glady  resigned  himself  to  the  inevitable,  and  was  as 
polite  as  he  could  be  in  the  circumstances. 

"I  await  your  pleasure,"  he  said  in  a  gracious  tone, 
that  was  a  contrast  to  his  former  one. 

Sajiiel,  who  was  in  such  a  hurry  a  few  moments  be- 
fore, now  silently  walked  by  Glady,  whose  eyes  were  on 
the  shining  asphalt  pavement; 

[II] 


HECTOR  MALOT 

At  last  he  spoke. 

"I  have  told  you  that  my  future  depends  on  the  af- 
fair concerning  which  I  wish  to  speak  to  you.  I  can  tell 
you  all  in  a  few  words:  If  I  am  not  able  to  procure  three 
thousand  francs  within  two  days,  I  shall  be  obliged  to 
leave  Paris,  to  give  up  my  studies  and  my  work  here, 
and  go  and  bury  myself  in  my  native  town  and  become 
a  plain  country  doctor." 

Glady  did  not  flinch;  if  he  had  not  foreseen  the 
amount  he  expected  the  demand,  and  he  continued  gaz- 
ing at  his  feet. 

"You  know,"  continued  Saniel,  "that  I  am  the  son 
of  peasants;  my  father  was  marshal  in  a  poor  village  of 
Auvergne.  At  school  I  gave  proof  of  a  certain  aptitude 
for  work  above  my  comrades,  and  our  cure  conceived  an 
affection  for  me  and  taught  me  all  he  knew.  Then  he 
made  me  enter  a  small  seminary.  But  I  had  neither  the 
docile  mind  nor  the  submissive  character  that  was  nec- 
essary for  this  education,  and  after  several  years  of 
pranks  and  punishments,  although  I  was  not  expelled, 
I  was  given  to  understand  that  my  departure  would  be 
hailed  with  delight.  I  then  became  usher  in  a  small 
school,  but  without  salary,  taking  board  and  lodging  as 
payment.  I  passed  a  good  examination  and  was  pre- 
paring for  my  degree,  when  I  left  the  school  owing  to  a 
quarrel.  I  had  made  some  money  by  giving  private 
lessons,  and  I  found  myself  the  possessor  of  nearly  eighty 
francs.  I  started  for  Paris,  where  I  arrived  at  five 
o'clock  one  morning  in  June,  and  where  I  knew  no 
one.  I  had  a  small  trunk  containing  a  few  shirts,  which 
obliged  me  to  take  a  carriage.  I  told  the  coachman  to 

[12] 


CONSCIENCE 

take  me  to  a  hotel  in  the  Latin  Quarter.  'Which  ho- 
tel?' he  asked;  *I  do  not  care,'  I  answered.  *Do  you 
wish  to  go  to  the  Hotel  du  Senat  ? '  The  name  pleased 
me ;  perhaps  it  was  an  omen.  He  took  me  to  the  Hotel  du 
Senat,  where,  with  what  I  had  left  of  my  eighty  francs, 
I  paid  a  month  in  advance.    I  stayed  there  eight  years." 

"That  is  remarkable." 

"What  else  could  I  do?  I  knew  Latin  and  Greek  as 
well  as  any  man  in  France,  but  as  far  as  anything  else 
was  concerned  I  was  as  ignorant  as  a  schoolmaster. 
The  same  day  I  tried  to  make  use  of  what  I  knew,  and 
I  went  to  a  publisher  of  classic  books,  of  whom  I  had 
heard  my  professor  of  Greek  literature  speak.  After 
questioning  me  he  gave  me  a  copy  of  Pindar  to  prepare 
with  Latin  notes,  and  advanced  me  thirty  francs,  which 
lasted  me  a  month.  I  came  to  Paris  with  the  desire  to 
work,  but  without  having  made  up  my  mind  what  to 
do.  I  went  wherever  there  were  lectures,  to  the  Sor- 
bonne,  to  the  College  de  France,  to  the  Law  School, 
and  to  the  School  of  Medicine ;  but  it  was  a  month  be- 
fore I  came  to  a  decision.  The  subtleties  of  law  dis- 
pleased me,  but  the  study  of  medicine,  depending  upon 
the  observation  of  facts,  attracted  me,  and  I  decided  to 
become  a  doctor." 

"A  marriage  of  reason." 

"No,  a  marriage  for  love.  Because,  if  I  had  con- 
sulted reason,  it  would  have  told  me  that  to  marry  med- 
icine when  one  has  nothing — neither  family  to  sustain 
you  nor  relatives  to  push  you — would  be  to  condemn 
yourself  to  a  life  of  trials,  of  battles,  and  of  misery.  My 
student  life  was  happy;  I  worked  hard,  and  by  giving 

[13] 


HECTOR  MALOT 

lessons  in  Latin  I  had  enough  to  eat.  When  I  received 
as  house-surgeon  six,  eight,  nine  hundred  francs,  I 
thought  it  a  large  fortune,  and  I  would  have  remained 
in  this  position  for  the  rest  of  my  life  if  I  had  been  able 
to  do  so,  but  when  I  took  my  degree  of  doctor  I  was 
obliged  to  leave  the  hospital.  The  possessor  of  several 
thousand  francs,  I  should  have  followed  rigorously  my 
dream  of  ambition.  While  attending  the  mistress  of 
one  of  my  comrades  I  made  the  acquaintance  of  an  up- 
holsterer, who  suggested  that  he  should  furnish  an 
apartment  for  me,  and  that  I  might  pay  him  later.  I 
yielded  to  temptation.  Remember,  I  had  passed  eight 
years  in  the  Hotel  du  Senat,  and  I  knew  nothing  of 
Paris  life.  A  home  of  my  own !  My  own  furniture,  and 
a  servant  in  my  anteroom!  I  should  be  somebody! 
My  upholsterer  could  have  installed  me  in  his  own 
quarter  of  Paris,  and  perhaps  could  have  obtained  some 
patients  for  me  among  his  customers,  who  are  rich  and 
fashionable.  But  he  did  not  do  this,  probably  conclud- 
ing that  with  my  awkward  appearance  I  would  not  be 
a  success  with  such  people.  When  you  are  successful  it 
is  original  to  be  a  peasant — people  find  you  clever;  but 
before  success  comes  to  you  it  is  a  disgrace.  He  fur- 
nished me  an  apartment  in  a  very  respectable  house  in 
the  Rue  Louis-le-Grand.  When  I  went  into  it  I  had 
debts  to  the  amount  of  ten  thousand  francs  behind  me. 
the  interest  on  this  sum,  the  rent  of  two  thousand  four 
hundred  francs,  not  a  sou  in  my  pocket,  not  a  rela- 
tive  " 

"That  was  courageous." 

"I  did  not  know  that  in  Paris  everything  is  accom- 

[14] 


CONSCIENCE 

plished  through  influence,  and  I  imagined  that  an  in- 
telHgent  man  could  make  his  way  without  assistance., 
I  was  to  learn  by  experience.  When  a  new  doctor  ar- 
rives anywhere  his  brother  doctors  do  not  receive  him 
with  much  sympathy.  'What  does  this  intruder 
want?'  'Are  there  not  enough  of  us  already?'  He  is 
watched,  and  the  first  patient  that  he  loses  is  made  use 
of  as  an  example  of  his  ignorance  or  imprudence,  and 
his  position  becomes  uncomfortable.  The  chemists  of 
my  quarter  whom  I  called  upon  did  not  receive  me 
very  warmly ;  they  made  me  feel  the  distance  that  sepa- 
rates an  honorable  merchant  from  a  beggar,  and  I  was 
given  to  understand  that  they  could  patronize  me  only 
on  condition  that  I  ordered  the  specialties  that  they 
wished  to  profit  by — iron  from  this  one  and  tar  from 
that.  On  commencing  to  practise  I  had  as  patients 
only  the  people  of  the  quarter,  whose  principle  was 
never  to  pay  a  doctor,  and  who  wait  for  the  arrival  of  a 
new  one  in  order  that  they  may  be  rid  of  the  old  one — 
and  this  sort  is  numerous  everywhere.  It  happened 
that  my  concierge  was  from  Auvergne  like  myself,  and 
he  considered  it  his  duty  to  make  me  give  free  attend- 
ance to  all  those  from  our  country  that  he  could  find  in 
the  quarter  and  everywhere  else,  so  that  I  had  the  patri- 
otic satisfaction  of  seeing  all  the  charcoal-dealers  from 
Auvergne  sprawling  in  my  beautiful  armchairs.  Final- 
ly, by  remaining  religiously  at  home  every  Sunday  in 
summer,  while  the  other  doctors  were  away,  by  rising 
quickly  at  night  every  time  my  bell  rang,  I  was  able  to 
acquire  a  practice  among  a  class  of  people  who  were 
more  reasonable  and  satisfactory.    I  obtained  a  prize 

[15] 


HECTOR  MALOT 

at  the  Academy.  At  the  same  time  I  deHvered,  at  a 
moderate  price,  lectures  in  anatomy  at  schools  on  the 
outskirts  of  the  city;  I  gave  lessons;  I  undertook  all 
the  anonymous  work  of  the  book  trade  and  of  journal- 
ism that  I  could  find.  I  slept  five  hours  a  day,  and  in 
four  years  I  had  decreased  my  debt  seven  thousand 
francs.  If  my  upholsterer  wished  to  be  paid  I  could 
have  it  arranged,  but  that  was  not  his  intention.  He 
wishes  to  take  his  furniture  that  is  not  worn  out,  and  to 
keep  the  money  that  he  has  received.  If  I  do  not  pay 
these  three  thousand  francs  in  a  few  days  I  shall  be 
turned  into  the  street.  To  tell  the  truth,  I  shall  soon 
have  a  thousand  francs,  but  those  who  owe  it  to  me  are 
not  in  Paris,  or  will  pay  in  January.  Behold  my  situa- 
tion! I  am  desperate  because  there  is  no  one  to  whom 
I  can  apply;  those  whom  I  have  asked  for  money  have 
not  listened  to  me ;  I  have  told  you  that  I  have  no  rela- 
tives,  and  neither  have  I  any  friends — perhaps  because 
I  am  not  amiable.  And  then  I  thought  of  you.  Yor 
know  me.  You  know  that  people  say  I  have  a  future 
before  me.  At  the  end  of  three  months  I  shall  be  a 
doctor  in  the  hospitals;  my  competitors  admit  that  I 
shall  not  miss  admission;  I  have  undertaken  some  ex- 
periments that  will,  perhaps,  give  me  fame.  Will  you 
give  me  your  hand?" 

Glady  extended  it  toward  him.  "I  thank  you  for 
having  applied  to  me;  it  is  a  proof  of  confidence  that 
touches  me."  He  pressed  the  hand  that  he  had  taken 
with  some  warmth.  "I  see  that  you  have  divined  the 
sentiments  of  esteem  with  which  you  have  inspired 
me." 

[i6] 


CONSCIENCE 

Saniel  drew  a  long  breath. 

"Unfortunately,"  continued  Glady,  "I  cannot  do 
what  you  desire  without  deviating  from  my  usual  line 
of  conduct.  When  I  started  out  in  life  I  lent  to  all  those 
who  appealed  to  me,  and  when  I  did  not  lose  my  friends 
I  lost  my  money.  I  then  took  an  oath  to  refuse  every 
one.  It  is  an  oath  that  I  cannot  break.  What  would 
my  old  friends  say  if  they  learned  that  I  did  for  a  young 
man  what  I  have  refused  to  do  for  them?" 

"Who  would  know  it?" 

"My  conscience." 

They  had  reached  the  Quai  Voltaire,  where  fiacres 
were  stationed. 

"At  last  here  are  some  cabs,"  Glady  said.  "Pardon 
me  for  leaving  you,  but  I  am  in  a  hurry." 


[17] 


CHAPTER  III 


A  LAST  RESORT 


[LADY  entered  the  cab  so  quickly  that 
Saniel  remained  staring  at  the  side- 
walk, slightly  dazed.  It  was  only 
when  the  door  closed  that  he  under- 
stood. 

"His  conscience!"  he  murmured. 
"Behold  them!  Tartufes!" 
After  a  moment  of  hesitation,  he 
continued  his  way  and  reached  the  bridge  of  Saints- 
Peres,  but  he  walked  with  doubtful  steps,  like  a  man 
who  does  not  know  where  he  is  going.  Presently  he 
stopped,  and,  leaning  his  arms  on  the  parapet,  watched 
the  sombre,  rapidly  flowing  Seine,  its  small  waves 
fringed  with  white  foam.  The  rain  had  ceased,  but  the 
wind  blew  in  squalls,  roughening  the  surface  of  the  river 
a,nd  making  the  red  and  green  lights  of  the  omnibus 
boats  sway  in  the  darkness.  The  passers-by  came  and 
went,  and  more  than  one  examined  him  from  the  comer 
of  the  eye,  wondering  what  this  tall  man  was  doing 
there,  and  if  he  intended  to  throw  himself  into  the 
water. 

And  why  not?    What  better  could  he  do? 
And  this  was  what  Saniel  said  to  himself  while  watch- 
ing the  flowing  water.     One  plunge,  and  he  would  end 

[i8] 


/ 


/ 


CONSCIENCE 

the  fierce  battle  in  which  he  had  so  madly  engaged  for 
four  years,  and  which  would  in  the  end  drive  him  mad. 

It  was  not  the  first  time  that  this  idea  of  ending 
everything  had  tempted  him,  and  he  only  warded  it  off 
by  constantly  inventing  combinations  which  it  seemed 
to  him  at  the  moment  might  save  him.  Why  yield  to 
such  a  temptation  before  trying  everything?  And  this 
was  how  he  happened  to  appeal  to  Glady.  But  he  knew 
him,  and  knew  that  his  avarice,  about  which  every  one 
joked,  had  a  certain  reason  for  its  existence.  However, 
he  said  to  himself  that  if  the  landed  proprietor  obsti- 
nately refused  a  friendly  loan,  which  would  only  pay 
the  debts  of  youth,  the  poet  would  willingly  fill  the  role 
of  Providence  and  save  from  shipwreck,  without  risk- 
ing anything,  a  man  with  a  future,  who,  later,  would 
pay  him  back.  It  was  with  this  hope  that  he  risked  a 
refusal.  The  landed  proprietor  replied;  the  poet  was 
silent.  And  now  there  was  nothing  to  expect  from  any 
one.    Glady  was  his  last  resort. 

In  explaining  his  situation  to  Glady  he  lightened  the 
misery  instead  of  exaggerating  it.  For  it  was  not  only 
his  upholsterer  that  he  owed,  but  also  his  tailor,  his 
bootmaker,  his  coal-dealer,  his  concierge,  and  all  those 
with  whom  he  had  dealings.  In  reality,  his  creditors 
had  not  harassed  him  very  much  until  lately,  but  this 
state  of  affairs  would  not  last  when  they  saw  him  prose- 
cuted ;  they  also  would  sue  him,  and  how  could  he  de- 
fend himself  ?  How  should  he  live  ?  His  only  resource 
would  be  to  return  to  the  Hotel  du  S^nat,  where  even 
they  would  not  leave  him  in  peace,  or  to  his  native  town 
and  become  a  country  doctor.    In  either  case  it  was  re- 

[193 


HECTOR  MALOT 

nouncing  all  his  ambitions.  Would  it  not  be  better  to 
die? 

What  good  was  life  if  his  dreams  were  not  realized — 
if  he  had  nothing  that  he  wanted  ? 

Like  many  who  frequently  come  in  contact  with 
death,  life  in  itself  was  a  small  thing  to  him — his  owti 
life  as  well  as  that  of  others;  with  Hamlet  he  said: 
"To  die,  to  sleep,  no  more,"  but  without  adding:  "To 
die,  to  sleep,  perchance  to  dream,"  feeling  certain  that 
the  dead  do  not  dream;  and  what  is  better  than  sleep 
to  those  who  have  had  a  hard  life  ? 

He  was  absorbed  in  thought  when  something  came 
between  him  and  the  flaring  gaslight,  and  threw  a 
shadow  over  him  that  made  him  straighten  himself  up. 
What  was  it  ?  Only  a  policeman,  who  came  and  leaned 
against  the  parapet  near  him. 

He  understood.  His  attitude  was  that  of  a  man  who 
contemplates  throwing  himself  into  the  river,  and  the 
policeman  had  placed  himself  there  in  order  to  pre- 
vent it. 

"Thanks!"  he  said  to  the  astonished  man. 

He  continued  his  way,  walking  quickly,  but  hearing 
distinctly  the  steps  of  the  policeman  following  him,  who 
evidently  took  him  for  a  madman  who  must  be  watched. 

When  he  left  the  bridge  of  Saints-Peres  for  the  Place 
du  Carrousel  this  surveillance  ceased,  and  he  could  then 
indulge  freely  in  reflection — at  least  as  freely  as  his 
trouble  and  discouragement  permitted. 

"The  weak  kill  themselves;  the  strong  fight  to  their 
last  breath." 

And,  low  as  he  was,  he  was  not  yet  at  his  last  breath. 

[20] 


CONSCIENCE 

When  he  decided  to  appeal  to  Glady  he  had  hesi- 
tated between  him  and  a  usurer  named  Caffie,  whom  he 
did  not  know  personally,  but  whom  he  had  heard  spoken 
of  as  a  rascal  who  was  interested  in  all  sorts  of  affairs, 
preferring  the  bad  to  the  good — of  successions,  mar- 
riages, interdictions,  extortions;  and  if  he  had  not  been 
to  him  it  was  for  fear  of  being  refused,  as  much  as  from 
the  dread  of  putting  himself  in  such  hands  in  case  of 
meeting  with  compliance.  But  these  scruples  and 
these  fears  were  useless  now;  since  Glady  failed  him, 
cost  what  it  might  and  happen  what  would,  he  must  go 
to  this  scamp  for  assistance. 

He  knew  that  Caffie  lived  in  the  Rue  Sainte-Anne, 
but  he  did  not  know  the  number.  He  had  only  to  go 
to  one  of  his  patients,  a  wine-merchant  in  the  Rue 
Ther^se,  to  find  his  address  in  the  directory.  It  was 
but  a  step,  and  he  decided  to  run  the  risk;  there  was 
need  of  haste.  Discouraged  by  all  the  applications 
that  he  had  made  up  to  this  time,  disheartened  by 
betrayed  hopes,  irritated  by  rebuffs,  he  did  not  deceive 
himself  as  to  the  chances  of  this  last  attempt,  but  at 
least  he  would  try  it,  slight  though  the  hope  of  success 
might  be. 

It  was  an  old  house  where  Caffie  lived,  and  had  been 
formerly  a  private  hotel ;  it  was  composed  of  two  wings, 
one  on  the  street,  the  other  on  an  inside  court.  A  porte- 
cochhe  gave  access  to  this  court,  and  under  its  roof, 
near  the  staircase,  was  the  concierge's  lodge.  Saniel 
knocked  at  the  door  in  vain;  it  was  locked  and  would 
not  open.  He  waited  several  minutes,  and  in  his  ner- 
vous impatience  walked  restlessly  up  and  down  the 

[21] 


HECTOR  MALOT 

court.  At  last  an  old  woman  appeared  carrying  a  small 
wax  taper.  She  was  feeble  and  bent,  and  began  to  ex- 
cuse herself;  she  was  alone  and  could  not  be  every- 
where at  the  same  time,  in  her  lodge  and  lighting  the 
lamps  on  the  stairways.  Caffie  lived  on  the  first  floor, 
in  the  wing  on  the  street. 

Saniel  mounted  the  stairs  and  rang  the  bell.  A  long 
time  passed,  or  at  least  it  seemed  long  to  him,  before 
there  was  an  answer.  At  last  he  heard  a  slow  and 
heavy  step  on  the  tiled  floor  and  the  door  was  opened, 
but  held  by  a  hand  and  a  foot. 

"What  do  you  wish?" 

"Monsieur  Caffie." 

"I  am  he.    Who  are  you?" 

"Doctor  Saniel." 

"I  have  not  sent  for  a  doctor." 

"It  is  not  as  doctor  that  I  am  here,  but  as  client." 

"This  is  not  the  hour  when  I  receive  clients." 

"But  you  are  at  home." 

"That  is  a  fact!" 

And  Caffie,  concluding  to  open  the  door,  asked  Saniel 
to  enter,  and  then  closed  it. 

"Come  into  my  office." 

They  were  in  a  small  room  filled  with  papers  that  had 
only  an  old  desk  and  three  chairs  for  furniture ;  it  com- 
municated with  the  office  of  the  business  man,  which 
was  larger,  but  furnished  with  the  same  simplicity  and 
strewn  with  scraps  of  paper  that  had  a  mouldy  smell. 

"My  clerk  is  ill  just  now,"  Caffie  said,  "and  when  I 
am  alone  I  do  not  like  to  open  the  door." 

After  giving  this  excuse  he  offered  Saniel  a  chair,  and, 

[22] 


CONSCIENCE 

seating  himself  before  his  desk,  lighted  by  a  lamp  from 
which  he  had  taken  the  shade,  he  said : 

"Doctor,  I  am  ready  to  listen  to  you." 

He  replaced  the  shade  on  the  lamp. 

Saniel  made  his  request  concisely,  without  the  details 
that  he  had  entered  into  with  Glady.  He  owed  three 
thousand  francs  to  the  upholsterer  who  had  furnished 
his  apartment,  and  as  he  could  not  pay  immediately  he 
was  in  danger  of  being  prosecuted. 

"Who  is  the  upholsterer?"  Caffie  asked,  while  hold- 
ing his  left  jaw  with  his  right  hand. 

"  Jardine,  Boulevard  Haussmann." 

"I  know  him.  It  is  his  trade  to  take  back  his  furni- 
ture in  this  way,  after  three  quarters  of  the  sum  has  been 
paid,  and  he  has  become  rich  at  it.  How  much  money 
have  you  already  paid  of  this  ten  thousand  francs?" 

"Including  the  interest  and  what  I  have  paid  in  in- 
stalments, nearly  twelve  thousand  francs." 

"And  you  still  owe  three  thousand?" 

"Yes." 

"That  is  nice." 

Caffie  seemed  full  of  admiration  for  this  manner  of 
proceeding. 

"What  guarantee  have  you  to  offer  for  this  loan  of 
three  thousand  francs?" 

"No  other  than  my  present  position,  I  confess,  and 
above  all,  my  future." 

At  Caffi^'s  request  he  explained  his  plans  and  pros- 
pects for  the  future,  while  the  business  man,  with  his 
cheek  resting  on  his  hand,  listened,  and  from  time  to 
time  breathed  a  stifled  sigh,  a  sort  of  groan. 

[23] 


HECTOR  MALOT 

"Hum!  hum!"  he  said  when  Saniel  finished  his  ex- 
planation.   "You  know,  my  dear  friend,  you  know: 

To  fools  alone  the  future's  smile  unchangeable  appears, 

For  Friday's  laughter  Sunday's  sun  may  change  to  bitter  tears. 

It  is  Sunday  with  you,  my  dear  sir." 

"But  I  am  not  at  the  end  of  my  Hfe  nor  at  the  end  of 
my  energy,  and  I  assure  you  that  my  energy  makes  me 
capable  of  many  things." 

"  I  do  not  doubt  it ;  I  know  what  energy  can  do.  Tell 
a  Greek  who  is  dying  of  hunger  to  go  to  heaven  and  he 
will  go : 

Graeculus  esuriens  in  coelum,  jusseris,  ibit. 

But  I  do  not  see  that  you  have  started  for  heaven." 

A  smile  of  derision,  accompanied  by  a  grimace, 
crossed  Caffie's  face.  Before  becoming  the  usurer  of 
the  Rue  Sainte-Anne,  whom  every  one  called  a  rascal, 
he  had  been  attorney  in  the  country,  deputy  judge,  and 
if  unmerited  evils  had  obliged  him  to  resign  and  to  hide 
the  unpleasant  circumstances  in  Paris,  he  never  lost  an 
opportunity  to  prove  that  by  education  he  was  far  above 
his  present  position.  Finding  this  new  client  a  man  of 
learning,  he  was  glad  to  make  quotations  that  he  thought 
would  make  him  worthy  of  consideration. 

"It  is,  perhaps,  because  I  am  not  Greek,"  Saniel  re- 
plied; "but  I  am  an  Auvergnat,  and  the  men  of  my 
country  have  great  physical  strength." 

Caffie  shook  his  head. 

"My  dear  sir,"  he  said,  "I  might  as  well  tell  you 
frankly  that  I  do  not  believe  the  thing  can  be  done.    I 

IH] 


CONSCIENCE 

would  do  it  myself  willingly,  because  I  read  intelligence 
in  your  face,  and  resolution  in  your  whole  person,  which 
inspire  me  with  confidence  in  you ;  but  I  have  no  money 
to  put  into  such  speculations.  I  can  only  be,  as  usual, 
a  go-between — that  is  to  say,  I  can  propose  the  loan  to 
one  of  my  clients,  but  I  do  not  know  one  who  would  be 
contented  with  the  guarantee  of  a  future  that  is  more  or 
less  uncertain.  There  are  so  many  doctors  in  Paris  who 
are  in  your  position." 

Saniel  rose. 

"Are  you  going?"  cried  Caffi6. 

"But " 

"Sit  down,  my  dear  sir!  It  is  no  use  to  throw  the 
handle  after  the  axe.  You  make  me  a  proposition,  and 
I  show  you  the  difficulties  in  the  way,  but  I  do  not  say 
there  is  no  way  to  extricate  you  from  embarrassment. 
I  must  look  around.  I  have  known  you  only  a  few  min- 
utes; but  it  does  not  take  long  to  appreciate  a  man  like 
you,  and,  frankly,  you  inspire  me  with  great  interest." 

What  did  he  wish  ?  Saniel  was  not  simple  enough  to 
be  caught  by  words,  nor  was  he  a  fop  who  accepts  with 
gaping  mouth  all  the  compliments  addressed  to  him. 
Why  did  he  inspire  a  sudden  interest  in  this  man  who 
had  the  reputation  of  pushing  business  matters  to  ex- 
tremes? He  would  find  out.  In  the  mean  time  he 
would  be  on  his  guard. 

"I  thank  you  for  your  sympathy,"  he  said. 

"I  shall  prove  to  you  that  it  is  real,  and  that  it  may 
become  useful.  You  come  to  me  because  you  want 
three  thousand  francs.  I  hope  I  may  find  them  for  you, 
and  I  promise  to  try,  though  it  will  be  difficult,  very  dif- 

[25] 


HECTOR  MALOT 

ficult.  They  will  make  you  secure  for  the  present.  But 
will  they  assure  your  future?  that  is,  will  they  permit 
you  to  continue  the  important  works  of  which  you  have 
spoken  to  me,  and  on  which  your  future  depends?  No. 
Your  struggles  will  soon  begin  again.  And  you  must 
shake  yourself  clear  from  such  cares  in  order  to  secure 
for  yourself  the  liberty  that  is  indispensable  if  you  wish 
to  advance  rapidly.  And  to  obtain  this  freedom  from 
cares  and  this  liberty,  I  see  only  one  way — you  must 
marry." 


[26] 


CHAPTER  IV 

'twixt  the  devil  and  the  deep  sea 

JANIEL,  who  was  on  his  guard  and  ex- 
pected some  sort  of  roguery  from  this 
man,  had  not  foreseen  that  these  expres- 
sions of  interest  were  leading  up  to  a 
proposal  of  marriage,  and  an  exclama- 
tion of  surprise  escaped  him.  But  it 
was  lost  in  the  sound  of  the  door-bell, 
which  rang  at  that  moment. 
Caffie  rose.  "How  disagreeable  it  is  not  to  have  a 
clerk!"  he  said. 

He  went  to  open  the  door  with  an  eagerness  that  he 
had  not  shown  to  Saniel,  which  proved  that  he  had  no 
fear  of  admitting  people  when  he  was  not  alone. 
It  was  a  clerk  from  the  bank. 

"You  will  permit  me,"  Caffie  said, on  returning  to  his 
office.     "It  will  take  but  an  instant." 

The  clerk  took  a  paper  from  his  portfolio  and  handed 
it  to  Caffi^. 

Caffie  drew  a  key  from  the  pocket  of  his  vest,  with 
which  he  opened  the  iron  safe  placed  behind  his  desk, 
and  turning  his  back  to  Saniel  and  the  clerk  counted  the 
bills  which  they  heard  rustle  in  his  hands.  Presently 
he  rose,  and  closing  the  door  of  the  safe  he  placed  under 
the  lamp  the  package  of  bills  that  he  had  counted.   The 

[27] 


HECTOR  MALOT 

clerk  then  counted  them,  and  placing  them  in  his  port- 
folio took  his  leave. 

"Close  the  door  when  you  go  out,"  Cafl5e  said,  who 
was  already  seated  in  his  arm-chair. 

"Do  not  be  afraid." 

When  the  clerk  was  gone  Caffie  apologized  for  the 
interruption. 

"Let  us  continue  our  conversation,  my  dear  sir.  I 
told  you  that  there  is  only  one  way  to  relieve  you  perma- 
nently from  embarrassment,  and  that  way  you  will  find 
is  in  a  good  marriage,  that  will  place  hie  et  nunc  a  rea- 
sonable sum  at  your  disposal." 

"But  it  would  be  folly  for  me  to  marry  now,  when 
I  have  no  position  to  offer  a  wife." 

"And  your  future,  of  which  you  have  just  spoken 
with  so  much  assurance,  have  you  no  faith  in  that?" 

"An  absolute  faith — as  firm  to-day  as  when  I  first 
began  the  battle  of  life,  only  brighter.  However,  as 
others  have  not  the  same  reasons  that  I  have  to  hope 
and  believe  what  I  hope  and  believe,  it  is  quite  natural 
that  they  should  feel  doubts  of  my  future.  You  felt  it 
yourself  instantly  in  not  finding  it  a  good  guarantee  for 
the  small  loan  of  three  thousand  francs." 

"A  loan  and  marriage  are  not  the  same  thing.  A 
loan  relieves  you  temporarily,  and  leaves  you  in  a  state 
to  contract  several  others  successively,  which,  you  must 
acknowledge,  weakens  the  guarantee  that  you  offer. 
While  a  marriage  instantly  opens  to  you  the  road  that 
your  ambition  wishes  to  travel." 

"I  have  never  thought  of  marriage." 

"If  you  should  think  of  it?" 

[28] 


CONSCIENCE 

"There  must  be  a  woman  first  of  all." 

"If  I  should  propose  one,  what  would  you  say?" 

"But " 

"You  are  surprised?" 

"I  confess  that  I  am." 

"My  dear  sk,  I  am  the  friend  of  my  clients,  and  for 
many  of  them — I  dare  to  say  it — a  father.  And  having 
much  affection  for  a  young  woman,  and  for  the  daughter 
of  one  of  my  friends,  while  listening  to  you  I  thought 
that  one  or  the  other  might  be  the  woman  you  need. 
Both  have  fortunes,  and  both  possess  physical  attrac- 
tions that  a  handsome  man  like  yourself  has  a  right  to 
demand.  And  for  the  rest,  I  have  their  photographs, 
and  you  may  see  for  yourself  what  they  are." 

He  opened  a  drawer  in  his  desk,  and  took  from  it  a 
package  of  photographs.    As  he  turned  them  over  Sa- 
niel  saw  that  they  were  all  portraits  of  women.    Pres- 
ently he  selected  two  and  handed  them  to  Saniel. 

One  represented  a  woman  from  thirty-eight  to  forty 
years,  corpulent,  robust,  covered  with  horrible  cheap 
jewelry  that  she  had  evidently  put  on  for  the  purpose 
of  being  photographed.  The  other  was  a  young  girl 
of  about  twenty  years,  pretty,  simply  and  elegantly 
dressed,  whose  distinguished  and  reserved  physiognomy 
was  a  strong  contrast  to  the  first  portrait. 

While  Saniel  looked  at  these  pictures  Cafl56  studied 
him,  trying  to  discover  the  effect  they  produced. 

"Now  that  you  have  seen  them,"  he  said,  "let  us  talk 
of  them  a  little.  If  you  knew  me  better,  my  dear  sir, 
you  would  know  that  I  am  frankness  itself,  and  in  busi- 
ness my  principle  is  to  tell  everything,  the  good  and  thQ 

[29] 


HECTOR  MALOT 

bad,  so  that  my  clients  are  responsible  for  the  decisions 
they  make.  In  reality,  there  is  nothing  bad  about  these 
two  persons,  because,  if  there  were,  I  would  not  pro- 
pose them  to  you.  But  there  are  certain  things  that  my 
delicacy  compels  me  to  point  out  to  you,  which  I  do 
frankly,  feeling  certain  that  a  man  like  you  is  not  the 
slave  of  narrow  prejudices." 

An  expression  of  pain  passed  over  his  face,  and  he 
clasped  his  jaw  with  both  hands. 

"You  suffer?"  Saniel  asked. 

"Yes,  from  my  teeth,  cruelly.  Pardon  me  that  I 
show  it ;  I  know  by  myself  that  nothing  is  more  annoy- 
ing than  the  sight  of  the  sufferings  of  others." 

"At  least  not  to  doctors." 

"Never  mind;  we  will  return  to  my  clients.  This 
one" — and  he  touched  the  portrait  of  the  bejewelled 
woman — "is,  as  you  have  divined  already,  a  widow,  a 
very  amiable  widow.  Perhaps  she  is  a  little  older  than 
you  are,  but  that  is  nothing.  Your  experience  must 
have  taught  you  that  the  man  who  wishes  to  be  loved, 
tenderly  loved,  pampered,  caressed,  spoiled,  should 
marry  a  woman  older  than  himself,  who  will  treat  him 
as  a  husband  and  as  a  son.  Her  first  husband  was  a 
careful  merchant,  who,  had  he  lived,  would  have  made 
a  large  fortune  in  the  butcher  business" — he  mumbled 
this  word  instead  of  pronouncing  it  clearly — "but  al- 
though he  died  just  at  the  time  when  his  affairs  were  be- 
ginning to  develop,  he  left  twenty  thousand  pounds' 
income  to  his  wife.  As  I  have  told  you  what  is  good,  I 
must  tell  you  what  is  to  be  regretted.  Carried  away  by 
gay  companions,  this  intelligent  man  became  addicted 

[30] 


CONSCIENCE 

to  intemperance,  and  from  drinking  at  saloons  he  soon 
took  to  drinking  at  home,  and  his  wife  drank  with  him. 
I  have  every  reason  to  believe  that  she  has  reformed; 
but,  if  it  is  otherwise,  you,  a  doctor,  can  easily  cure 
her " 

"You  believe  it?" 

"Without  doubt.  However,  if  it  is  impossible,  you 
need  only  let  her  alone,  and  her  vice  will  soon  carry  her 
off;  and,  as  the  contract  will  be  made  according  to  my 
wishes  in  view  of  such  an  event,  you  will  find  yourself 
invested  with  a  fortune  and  unencumbered  with  a  wife." 

"And  the  other?"  Saniel  said,  who  had  listened  si- 
lently to  this  curious  explanation  of  the  situation  that 
Caffie  made  with  the  most  perfect  good-nature.  So 
grave  were  the  circumstances  that  he  could  not  help 
being  amused  at  this  diplomacy. 

"I  expected  your  demand,"  replied  the  agent  with  a 
shrewd  smile.  "And  if  I  spoke  of  this  amiable  widow 
it  was  rather  to  acquit  my  conscience  than  with  any 
hope  of  succeeding.  However  free  from  prejudices  one 
may  be,  one  always  retains  a  few.  I  understand  yours, 
and  more  than  that,  I  share  them.  Happily,  what  I  am 
now  about  to  tell  you  is  something  quite  different.  Take 
her  photograph,  my  dear  sir,  and  look  at  it  while  I  talk. 
A  charming  face,  is  it  not?  She  has  been  finely  edu- 
cated at  a  fashionable  convent.  In  a  word,  a  pearl,  that 
you  shall  wear.  And  now  I  must  tell  you  the  flaw,  for 
there  is  one.  Who  is  blameless  ?  The  daughter  of  one 
of  our  leading  actresses,  after  leaving  the  convent  she 
returned  to  live  with  her  mother.  It  was  there,  in  this 
environment — ahem!    ahem! — that  an  accident  hap- 

[31] 


HECTOR  MALOT 

pened  to  her.  To  be  brief,  she  has  a  sweet  little  child 
that  the  father  would  have  recognized  assuredly,  had 
he  not  been  already  married.  But  at  least  he  has  pro- 
vided for  its  future  by  an  endowment  of  two  hundred 
thousand  francs,  in  such  a  way  that  whoever  marries  the 
mother  and  legitimizes  the  child  will  enjoy  the  interest 
of  this  sum  until  the  child's  majority.  If  that  ever  ar- 
rives— these  little  creatures  are  so  fragile !  You  being  a 
physician,  you  know  more  about  that  than  any  one.  In 
case  of  an  accident  the  father  will  inherit  half  the  money 
from  his  son ;  and  if  it  seems  cruel  for  an  own  father  to 
inherit  from  his  own  son,  it  is  quite  a  different  thing 
when  it  is  a  stranger  who  receives  the  fortune.  This  is 
all,  my  dear  sir,  plainly  and  frankly,  and  I  will  not  do 
you  the  injury  to  suppose  that  you  do  not  see  the  ad- 
vantages of  what  I  have  said  to  you  without  need  of  my 
insisting  further.    If  I  have  not  explained  clearly " 

"But  nothing  is  more  clear." 

" — it  is  the  fault  of  this  pain  that  paralyzes  me." 

And  he  groaned  while  holding  his  jaw. 

"You  have  a  troublesome  tooth?"  Saniel  said,  with 
the  tone  of  a  physician  who  questions  a  patient. 

"All  my  teeth  trouble  me.  To  tell  the  truth,  they  are 
all  going  to  pieces." 

"Have  you  consulted  a  doctor?" 

"Neither  a  doctor  nor  a  dentist.  I  have  faith  in  med- 
icine, of  course;  but  when  I  consult  doctors,  which  sel- 
dom happens,  I  notice  that  they  think  much  more  of 
their  own  affairs  than  of  what  I  am  saying,  and  that 
keeps  me  away  from  them.  But,  my  dear  sir,  when  a 
client  consults  me,  I  put  myself  in  his  place." 

[32] 


CONSCIENCE 

While  he  spoke,  Saniel  examined  him,  which  he  had 
not  done  until  this  moment,  and  he  saw  the  character- 
istic signs  of  rapid  consumption.  His  clothes  hung  on 
him  as  if  made  for  a  man  twice  his  size,  and  his  face 
was  red  and  shining,  as  if  he  were  covered  with  a  coat- 
ing of  cherry  jelly. 

"Will  you  show  me  your  teeth ?"  he  asked.  "It  may 
be  possible  to  relieve  your  sufferings." 

"Do  you  think  so?" 

The  examination  did  not  last  long. 

"Your  mouth  is  often  dry,  is  it  not?"  he  asked. 

"Yes." 

"You  are  often  thirsty?" 

"Always." 

"Do  you  sleep  well?" 

"No." 

"Your  sight  troubles  you?" 

"Yes." 

"Have  you  a  good  appetite?" 

"Yes,  I  eat  heartily;  and  the  more  I  eat  the  thinner 
I  become.    I  am  turning  into  a  skeleton." 

"I  see  that  you  have  scars  from  boils  on  the  back  of 
your  neck." 

"They  made  me  suffer  enough,  the  rascals;  but  they 
are  gone  as  they  came.  Hang  it,  one  is  no  longer  young 
at  seventy-two  years;  one  has  small  vexations.  They 
are  small  vexations,  are  they  not?" 

"Certainly.  With  some  precautions  and  a  diet  that 
I  shall  prescribe,  if  you  wish,  you  will  soon  be  better. 
I  will  give  you  a  prescription  that  will  relieve  your  tooth- 
ache." 

3  [33] 


HECTOR  MALOT 

"We  will  talk  of  this  again,  because  we  shall  have 
occasion  to  meet  if,  as  I  presume,  you  appreciate  the 
advantages  of  the  proposition  that  I  have  made  you." 

"I  must  have  time  to  reflect." 

"Nothing  is  more  reasonable.    There  is  no  hurry." 

"But  I  am  in  a  hurry  because,  if  I  do  not  pay  Jar- 
dine,  I  shall  find  myself  in  the  street,  which  would  not 
be  a  position  to  offer  to  a  wife." 

"In  the  street?  Oh,  things  will  not  come  to  such  a 
pass  as  that!    What  are  the  prosecutions?" 

"They  will  soon  begin;  Jardine  has  already  threat- 
ened me." 

"They  are  going  to  begin?  Then  they  have  not  be- 
gun. If  he  does,  as  we  presume  he  will,  proceed  by  a 
replevin,  we  shall  have  sufficient  time  before  the  judg- 
ment.   Do  you  owe  anything  to  your  landlord?" 

"The  lease  expired  on  the  fifteenth." 

"Do  not  pay  it." 

"That  is  easy;  it  is  the  only  thing  that  is  easy  for  me 
to  do." 

"It  is  an  obstacle  in  the  way  of  your  Jardine,  and 
may  stop  him  a  moment.  We  can  manage  this  way 
more  easily.  The  important  thing  is  to  warn  me  as 
soon  as  the  fire  begins.    Au  revoir,  my  dear  sir." 


[34] 


;  \ 


CHAPTER  V 

A  CHARMING  .VISITOR 

.THOUGH  Saniel  had  had  no  experi- 
ence in  business,  he  was  not  simple 
enough  not  to  know  that  in  refusing 
him  this  loan  Caffie  meant  to  make 
use  of  him. 

"It  is  very  simple,"  he  said  to  him- 
self, as  he  went  down-stairs.  "He 
undertakes  to  manage  my  affairs,  and 
in  such  a  way  that  some  day  I  shall  have  to  save  myself 
by  marrying  that  charming  girl.  What  a  scoundrel!" 
However,  the  situation  was  such  that  he  was  glad  to 
avail  himself  of  the  assistance  of  this  scoundrel.  At 
least,  some  time  was  gained,  and  when  Jardine  found 
that  he  was  not  disposed  to  let  himself  be  slaughtered, 
he  might  accept  a  reasonable  arrangement.  But  he 
must  manage  so  that  Caffie  would  not  prevent  this 
arrangement. 

Unfortunately,  he  felt  himself  hardly  capable  of  such 
manoeuvring,  having  been  always  straightforward,  his 
eyes  fixed  on  the  end  he  wished  to  attain,  and  thinking 
only  of  the  work  through  which  he  would  attain  it.  And 
now  he  must  act  the  part  of  a  diplomat,  submitting  to 
craftiness  and  rogueries  that  were  not  at  all  in  accord 
with  his  open  nature.    He  had  begun  by  not  telling 

[35] 


HECTOR  MALOT 

Caffi6,  instantly,  what  he  thought  of  his  propositions; 
but  it  is  more  difficult  to  act  than  to  control  one's  self, 
to  speak  than  to  be  silent. 

What  would  he  say,  what  would  he  do,  when  the  time 
for  action  came  ? 

He  reached  his  house  without  having  decided  any- 
thing, and  as  he  passed  before  the  concierge^ s  lodge  ab- 
sorbed in  thought,  he  heard  some  one  call  him. 

"Doctor,  come  in  a  moment,  I  beg  of  you." 

He  thought  some  one  wished  to  consult  him,  some 
countryman  who  had  waited  for  his  return;  and,  al- 
though he  did  not  feel  like  listening  patiently  to  idle 
complainings,  he  turned  back  and  entered  the  lodge. 

"Some  one  brought  this,"  the  concierge  said,  handing 
him  a  paper  that  was  stamped  and  covered  with  a  run- 
ning handwriting.  "This"  was  the  beginning  of  the 
fire  of  which  Caffie  had  spoken.  Without  reading  it, 
Saniel  put  it  in  his  pocket  and  turned  to  go;  but  the 
concierge  detained  him. 

"I  would  like  to  say  two  words  to  monchieur  le  doc- 
teur  about  this  paper." 

"Have  you  read  it?" 

"No,  but  I  talked  with  the  officer  who  gave  it  to  me,  and 
he  told  me  what  it  meant.    It  is  unfortunate,  doctor." 

To  be  pitied  by  his  concierge  1    This  was  too  much. 

"It  is  not  as  he  told  you,"  he  replied,  haughtily. 

"So  much  the  better.  I  am  glad  for  you  and  for  me. 
You  can  pay  my  little  bill." 

"  Give  it  to  me." 

"I  have  given  it  to  you  twice  already,  but  I  have  a 
copy.    Here  it  is." 

[36] 


CONSCIENCE 

To  be  sued  by  a  creditor  paralyzed  Saniel;  he  was 
stunned,  crushed,  humihated,  and  could  only  answer 
stupidly.  Taking  the  bill  that  the  concierge  handed 
him,  he  put  it  in  his  pocket  and  stammered  a  few  words. 

"You  see,  doctor,  I  must  say  what  has  been  in  my 
heart  a  long  time.  You  are  my  countryman,  and  I  es- 
teem you  too  much  not  to  speak.  In  taking  your  apart- 
ment and  engaging  your  upholsterer,  you  did  too  much. 
You  ruin  yourself.  Give  up  your  apartment,  and  take 
the  one  opposite  that  costs  less  than  half,  and  you  will 
get  on.  You  will  not  be  obliged  to  leave  this  quarter. 
What  will  become  of  our  neighbors  if  you  leave  us? 
You  are  a  good  doctor;  everybody  knows  it  and  says 
so.  And  now,  as  for  my  bill,  it  is  understood  that  I 
shall  be  paid  first,  shall  I  not?" 

"As  soon  as  I  have  the  money  I  will  pay  you." 

"It  is  a  promise?" 

"I  promise  you." 

"Thank  you  very  much.  If  it  could  be  to-morrow, 
it  would  suit  me.  I  am  not  rich,  you  know,  but  I  have 
always  paid  the  gas-bill  for  your  experiments." 

With  the  paper  in  his  pocket,  Saniel  returned  to  Caf- 
fie,  who  was  just  going  out,  and  to  whom  he  gave  it. 

"I  will  see  about  it  this  evening,"  said  the  man  of 
business.  "  Just  now  I  am  going  to  dinner.  Do  not 
worry.  To-morrow  I  will  do  what  is  necessary.  Good- 
evening.    I  am  dying  of  hunger." 

But  three  days  before,  Saniel  emptied  his  purse  to 
soothe  his  upholsterer  by  an  instalment  as  large  as  he 
was  able  to  make  it,  keeping  only  five  francs  for  him- 
self, and  with  the  few  sous  left  he  could  not  go  to  a  res- 

[37] 


HECTOR  MALOT 

taurant,  not  even  the  lowest  and  cheapest.  He  could 
only  buy  some  bread  for  his  supper,  and  eat  it  while 
working,  as  he  had  often  done  before. 

But  when  he  returned  to  his  rooms  he  was  not  in  a 
state  of  mind  to  write  an  article  that  must  be  delivered 
that  evening.  Among  other  things  that  he  had  un- 
dertaken was  one,  and  not  the  least  fastidious,  which 
consisted  in  giving,  by  correspondence,  advice  to  the  sub- 
scribers of  a  fashion  magazine,  or,  more  exactly  speak- 
ing, to  recommend,  in  the  form  of  medical  advice,  all 
the  cosmetics,  depilatories,  elixirs,  dyes,  essences,  oils, 
creams,  soaps,  pomades,  tooth-powders,  rouges,  and 
also  all  the  chemists'  specialties,  to  which  their  inven- 
tors wished  to  give  an  authority  that  the  public,  which 
believes  itself  acute,  refused  to  the  simple  advertise- 
ment on  the  last  page.  With  his  ambition  and  the  ca- 
reer before  him,  he  would  never  have  consented  to 
carry  on  this  correspondence  under  his  own  name.  He 
did  it  for  a  neighboring  doctor,  a  simple  man,  who  was 
not  so  cautious,  and  who  signed  his  name  to  these  let- 
ters, glad  to  get  clients  from  any  quarter.  For  his 
trouble,  Saniel  took  this  doctor's  place  during  Sunday 
in  summer,  and  from  time  to  time  received  a  box  of 
perfumery  or  quack  medicines,  which  he  sold  at  a  low 
price  when  occasion  offered. 

Every  week  he  received  the  list  of  cosmetics  and  spe- 
cialties that  he  must  make  use  of  in  his  correspond- 
ence, no  matter  how  he  recommended  them,  whether 
in  answer  to  letters  that  were  really  addressed  to  him, 
or  by  inventing  questions  that  gave  him  the  opportunity 
to  introduce  them. 

[38] 


CONSCIENCE 

He  began  to  consult  this  list  and  the  pile  of  letters 
from  subscribers  that  the  magazine  had  sent  him,  when 
the  doorbell  rang.  Perhaps  it  was  a  patient,  the  good 
patient  whom  he  had  expected  for  four  years.  He  left 
his  desk  to  open  the  door. 

It  was  his  coal  man,  who  came  with  his  bill. 

"I  will  stop  some  day  when  I  am  near  you,"  Saniel 
said.    "I  am  in  a  hurry  this  evening." 

"And  I  am  in  a  hurry,  too;  I  must  pay  a  large  bill 
to-morrow,  and  I  count  upon  having  some  money  from 
you." 

"I  have  no  money  here." 

After  a  long  talk  he  got  rid  of  the  man  and  returned 
to  his  desk.  He  had  answered  but  a  few  of  the  many 
letters  when  his  bell  rang  again.  This  time  he  would 
not  open  the  door;  it  was  a  creditor,  without  doubt. 
And  he  continued  his  correspondence. 

But  for  four  years  he  had  waited  for  chance  to  draw 
him  a  good  ticket  in  the  lottery  of  life — a  rich  patient 
afflicted  with  a  cyst  or  a  tumor  that  he  would  take  to  a 
fashionable  surgeon,  who  would  divide  with  him  the 
ten  or  fifteen  thousand  francs  that  he  would  receive  for 
the  operation.    In  that  case  he  would  be  saved. 

He  ran  to  the  door.  The  patient  with  the  cyst  pre- 
sented himself  in  the  form  of  a  small  bearded  man  with 
a  red  face,  wearing  over  his  vest  the  wine-merchant's 
apron  of  coarse  black  cloth.  In  fact,  it  was  the  wine 
merchant  from  the  comer,  who,  having  heard  of  the 
officer's  visit,  came  to  ask  for  the  pajmient  of  his  bill 
for  furnishing  wine  for  three  months. 

A  scene  similar  to  that  which  he  had  had  with  the 

[39] 


HECTOR  MALOT 

coal  merchant,  but  more  violent,  took  place,  and  it  was 
only  by  threatening  to  put  him  out  of  the  door  that 
Saniel  got  rid  of  the  man,  who  went  away  declaring  that 
he  would  come  the  next  morning  with  an  officer. 

Saniel  returned  to  his  work. 

His  pen  flew  over  the  paper,  when  a  noise  made  him 
raise  his  head.  Either  he  had  not  closed  the  door 
tightly,  or  his  servant  was  entering  with  his  key.  What 
did  he  want  ?  He  did  not  employ  him  all  day,  but  only 
during  his  office  hours,  to  put  his  rooms  in  order  and  to 
open  the  door  for  his  clients. 

As  Saniel  rose  to  go  and  see  who  it  was,  there  was  a 
knock  at  the  door.  It  was  his  servant,  with  a  blank 
and  embarrassed  air. 

"What  is  the  matter,  Joseph?" 

"I  thought  I  should  find  you,  sir,  so  I  came." 

"Why?" 

Joseph  hesitated;  then,  taking  courage,  he  said  vol- 
ubly, while  lowering  his  eyes : 

"I  came  to  ask,  sir,  if  you  will  pay  me  my  month, 
which  expired  on  the  fifteenth,  because  there  is  need  of 
money  at  my  house;  if  there  was  not  need  of  money  I 
would  not  have  come.  If  you  wish,  sir,  I  will  release 
you " 

"How?" 

"I  will  take  the  coat  that  you  made  me  order  a  month 
ago;  I  am  quite  sure  it  is  not  worth  what  is  due  me, 
but  it  is  always  so." 

"Take  the  coat." 

Joseph  took  the  coat  from  the  wardrobe  in  the  hall, 
and  rolled  it  in  a  newspaper. 

[40] 


CONSCIENCE 

"Of  course  you  will  not  expect  me  in  the  morning," 
he  said,  as  he  put  his  key  on  the  table.  "I  must  look 
out  for  another  place." 

"Very  well,  I  shall  not  expect  you." 

"Good-evening,  sir." 

And  Joseph  hurried  away  as  quickly  as  possible. 

Left  alone,  Saniel  did  not  return  to  his  work  imme- 
diately, but  throwing  himself  in  an  armchair  he  cast  a 
melancholy  glance  around  his  office  and  through  the 
open  door  into  the  parlor.  In  the  faint  light  of  the  can- 
dle he  saw  the  large  armchairs  methodically  placed 
each  side  of  the  chimney,  the  curtains  at  the  windows 
lost  in  shadow,  and  all  the  furniture  which  for  four 
years  had  cost  him  so  many  efforts.  He  had  long  been 
the  prisoner  of  this  Louis  XIV  camlet,  and  he  was  now 
going  to  be  executed.  A  beautiful  affair,  truly,  brilliant 
and  able !  All  this  had  been  used  only  by  the  poor  Au- 
vergnats,  without  Saniel  enjoying  it  at  all,  for  he  had 
neither  the  bourgeois  taste  for  ornaments  nor  the  desire 
for  elegance.  A  movement  of  anger  and  revolt  against 
himself  made  him  strike  his  desk  with  his  fist.  What  a 
fool  he  had  been! 

The  bell  rang  again.  This  time,  not  expecting  a  rich 
patient,  he  would  not  open  it.  After  a  moment  a  slight 
tap  was  heard  on  the  panel.  He  rose  quickly  and  ran 
to  open  the  door. 

A  woman  threw  herself  into  his  arms. 

"O  my  dearest!    I  am  so  glad  to  find  you  at  home!" 


[41] 


CHAPTER  VI 

A  SWEET  CONSOLER 

*HE  passed  her  arm  about  him  and 
pressed  him  to  her,  and  with  arms 
entwined  they  entered  the  study. 

"How  glad  I  am !"  she  said.    "What 
a  good  idea  I  had!" 

With  a  quick  movement  she  took  off 
her  long  gray  cloak  that  enveloped  her 
from  head  to  foot. 
"And  are  you  glad?"  she  asked^  as  she  stood  look- 
ing at  him. 

"Can  you  ask  that?" 
"Only  to  hear  you  say  that  you  are." 
"Are  you  not  my  only  joy,  the  sweet  lamp  that  gives 
me  light  in  the  cavern  where  I  work  day  and  night?" 
"Dear  Victor!" 

She  was  a  tall,  slender  young  woman  with  chestnut 
hair,  whose  thick  curls  clustering  about  her  forehead 
almost  touched  her  eyebrows.  Her  beautiful  eyes  were 
dark,  her  nose  short,  while  her  superb  teeth  and  rich, 
ruby-colored  lips  gave  her  the  effect  of  a  pretty  doll; 
and  she  had  gayety,  playful  vivacity,  gracious  effrontery, 
and  a  passionate  caressing  glance.  Dressed  extrava- 
gantly, like  the  Parisian  woman  who  has  not  a  sou,  but 
who  adorns  everything  she  wears,  she  had  an  ease,  a 
freedom,  a  natural  elegance  that  was  charming.    With 

[42] 


CONSCIENCE 

this  she  had  the  voice  of  a  child,  a,  joyous  laugh,  and  an 
expression  of  sensibility  on  her  fresh  face. 

"I  have  come  to  dine  with  you,"  she  said,  gayly, 
"and  I  am  so  hungry." 

He  made  a  gesture  that  was  not  lost  upon  her. 

"Do  I  disturb  you?"  she  asked,  uneasily. 

"Not  at  all." 

"Must  you  go  out?" 

"No." 

"Then  why  did  you  make  a  gesture  that  showed  in- 
difference, or,  at  least,  embarrassment?" 

"You  are  mistaken,  my  little  Phillis," 

"With  any  one  else  I  might  be  mistaken,  but  with 
you  it  is  impossible.  You  know  that  between  us  words 
are  not  necessary;  that  I  read  in  your  eyes  what  you 
would  say,  in  your  face  what  you  think  and  feel.  Is  it 
not  always  so  when  one  loves — as  I  love  you?" 

He  took  her  in  his  arms  and  kissed  her  long  and  ten- 
derly. Then  going  to  a  chair  on  which  he  had  thrown 
his  coat,  he  drew  from  the  pocket  the  bread  that  he  had 
bought. 

"This  is  my  dinner,"  he  said,  showing  the  bread. 

"Oh!  I  must  scold  you.  Work  is  making  you  lose 
your  head.    Can  you  not  take  time  to  eat?" 

He  smiled  sadly. 

"It  is  not  time  that  I  want." 

He  fumbled  in  his  pocket  and  brought  out  three  big 
sous. 

"I  cannot  dine  at  a  restaurant  with  six  sous." 

She  threw  herself  in  his  arms. 

"O  dearest,  forgive  me!"  she  cried.     "Poor,  dear 

[43] 


HECTOR  MALOT 

martyr!  Dear,  great  man!  It  is  I  who  accuse  you, 
when  I  ought  to  embrace  your  knees.  And  you  do  not 
scold  me;  a  sad  smile  is  your  only  reply.  And  it  is 
really  so  bad  as  that!    Nothing  to  eat!" 

"Bread  is  very  good  eating.  If  I  might  be  assured 
that  I  shall  always  have  some!" 

"Well,  to-day  you  shall  have  something  more  and 
better.  This  morning,  seeing  the  storm,  an  idea  came 
to  me  associated  with  you.  It  is  quite  natural,  since 
you  are  always  in  my  heart  and  in  my  thoughts.  I 
told  mamma  that  if  the  storm  continued  I  would  dine 
at  the  pension.  You  can  imagine  with  what  joy  I 
listened  to  the  wind  all  day,  and  watched  the  rain  and 
leaves  falling,  and  the  dead  branches  waving  in  the 
whirlwind.  Thank  God,  the  weather  was  bad  enough 
for  mamma  to  believe  me  safe  at  the  pension;  and  here 
I  am.  But  we  must  not  fast.  I  shall  go  and  buy  some- 
thing to  eat,  and  we  will  play  at  making  dinner  by 
the  fire,  which  will  be  far  more  amusing  than  going  to 
a  restaurant." 

She  put  on  her  cloak  quickly. 

"Set  the  table  while  I  make  my  purchases." 

"I  have  my  article  to  finish  that  will  be  sent  for  at 
eight  o'clock.  Just  think,  I  have  three  tonics  to  recom- 
mend, four  preparations  of  iron,  a  dye,  two  capillary 
lotions,  an  opiate,  and  I  don't  know  how  many  soaps 
and  powders.    What  a  business!" 

"Very  well,  then,  do  not  trouble  yourself  about  the 
table;  we  will  set  it  together  when  you  have  finished, 
and  that  will  be  much  more  amusing." 

"You  take  everything  in  good  part." 

[44] 


CONSCIENCE 

"Is  it  better  to  look  on  the  dark  side?  I  shall  soon 
return." 

She  went  to  the  door. 

"Do  not  be  extravagant,"  he  said. 

"There  is  no  danger,"  she  replied,  striking  her 
pocket. 

Then,  returning  to  him,  she  embraced  him  pas- 
sionately. 

"Work!" 
.  And  she  ran  out. 

They  had  loved  each  other  for  two  years.  At  the 
time  they  met,  Saniel  was  giving  a  course  of  lectures  on 
anatomy  at  a  young  ladies'  school  just  outside  of  Paris, 
and  every  time  he  went  out  there  he  saw  a  young  woman 
whom  he  could  not  help  noticing.  She  came  and  went 
on  the  same  trains  that  he  did,  and  gave  lessons  in  a 
rival  school.  As  she  frequently  carried  under  her  arm 
a  large  cartoon,  and  sometimes  a  plaster  cast,  he  con- 
cluded that  she  gave  lessons  in  drawing.  At  first  he 
paid  no  attention  to  her.  What  was  she  to  him?  He 
had  more  important  things  in  his  head  than  women. 
But  little  by  little,  and  because  she  was  reserved  and 
discreet,  he  was  struck  by  the  vivacity  and  gayety  of 
her  expression.  He  really  enjoyed  looking  at  this  pretty 
and  pleasing  young  woman.  However,  his  looks  said 
nothing;  if  their  eyes  smiled  when  they  met,  that  was 
all;  they  did  not  make  each  other's  acquaintance. 
When  they  left  the  train  they  did  not  notice  each  other; 
if  he  took  the  left  side  of  the  street,  she  took  the  other, 
and  vice  versa.  This  state  of  things  lasted  several 
jnonths  without  a  word  having  been  exchanged  between 

[45] 


HECTOR  MALOT 

them;  in  due  time  they  learned  each  other's  names  and 
professions.  She  was  a  professor  of  drawing,  as  he  sup- 
posed, the  daughter  of  an  artist  who  had  been  dead 
several  years,  and  was  called  Mademoiselle  Phillis 
Cormier.  He  was  a  physician  for  whom  a  brilliant  fut- 
ure was  prophesied,  a  man  of  power,  who  would  some 
day  be  famous;  and,  very  naturally,  their  attitude  re- 
mained the  same.  There  was  no  particular  reason  why 
it  should  change.  But  accident  made  a  reason.  One 
summer  day,  at  the  hour  when  they  ordinarily  took  the 
train  back  to  Paris,  the  sky  suddenly  became  overcast, 
and  it  was  evident  that  a  violent  storm  was  approach- 
ing. Saniel  saw  Phillis  hurrying  to  the  station  without 
an  umbrella,  and,  as  some  friend  had  lent  him  one,  he 
decided  to  speak  to  her  for  the  first  time. 

**  It  seems  as  if  the  storm  would  overtake  us  before  we 
reach  the  station.  As  you  have  no  umbrella,  will  you 
permit  me  to  walk  beside  you,  and  to  shelter  you  with 
mine?" 

She  replied  with  a  smile,  and  they  walked  side  by 
side  until  the  rain  began  to  fall,  when  she  drew  nearer 
to  him,  and  they  entered  the  station  talking  gayly. 

"Your  umbrella  is  better  than  Virginia's  skirt,"  she 
said. 

"And  what  is  Virginia's  skirt?" 

"Have  you  not  read  Paid  and  Virginia ?^^ 

"No." 

She  looked  at  him  with  a  mocking  smile,  wondering 
what  superior  men  read. 

Not  only  had  he  not  read  Bemardin  de  Saint- 
Pierre's  romance,  nor  any  others,  but  he  had  never 

[46] 


CONSCIENCE 

been  in  love.  He  knew  nothing  of  the  affairs  of  the 
heart  nor  of  the  imagination.  Leisure  must  be  had  for 
light  reading,  and  even  more  for  love,  for  they  require 
a  liberty  of  mind  and  an  independence  of  life  that  he 
had  not.  Where  could  he  find  time  to  read  novels? 
When  and  how  could  he  pay  attention  to  a  woman? 
Those  that  he  had  known  since  his  arrival  in  Paris  had 
not  had  the  slightest  influence  over  him,  and  he  re- 
tained only  faint  memories  of  them.  On  the  contrary, 
thinking  of  this  walk  in  the  rain,  he  remembered  this 
young  girl  with  a  vividness  entirely  new  to  him.  She 
made  a  strong  impression  on  him,  and  it  remained. 
He  saw  her  again,  with  her  smile  that  showed  her  brill- 
iant teeth,  he  heard  the  music  of  her  voice,  and  the 
bare  plain  that  he  had  walked  so  many  times  now 
seemed  the  most  beautiful  country  in  the  world  to  him. 
Evidently  there  was  a  change  in  him;  something  was 
awakened  in  his  soul;  for  the  first  time  he  discovered 
that  the  hollow  and  muscular  conoid  organ  called  the 
heart  had  a  use  besides  for  the  circulation  of  blood. 

What  a  surprise  and  what  a  disappointment!  Was 
he  going  to  be  simpleton  enough  to  love  this  young  girl 
and  entangle  his  life,  already  so  hard  and  heavily 
weighted,  with  a  woman?  A  fine  thing,  truly,  and 
nature  had  built  him  to  play  the  lover!  It  is  true  that 
only  those  who  wish  it  fall  in  love,  and  he  knew  the 
power  of  will  by  experience. 

But  he  soon  lost  confidence  in  himself.  Away  from 
I^illis  he  could  do  as  he  wished,  but  with  her  it  was  as 
she  wished.  With  one  look  she  mastered  him.  He  met 
her,  furious  at  the  influence  she  exercised  over  him,  and 

[47] 


HECTOR  MALOT 

against  which  he  had  struggled  since  their  last  meeting; 
he  left  her,  ravished  at  feeling  how  profoundly  he  loved 
her. 

To  a  man  whose  life  had  been  ruled  by  reason  and 
logic  until  this  moment,  these  contradictions  were  ex- 
asperating ;  and  he  only  excused  himself  for  submitting 
to  them  by  saying  that  they  could  in  no  way  modify  the 
line  of  conduct  that  he  had  traced  out  for  himself,  nor 
make  him  deviate  from  the  road  that  he  followed. 

Rich,  or  even  with  a  small  fortune,  he  might— when 
he  was  with  her  and  in  her  power — let  himself  be  car- 
ried away;  but  when  he  was  dying  of  hunger  he  was 
not  going  to  commit  the  folly  of  taking  a  wife.  What 
would  he  have  to  give  her?  Misery,  nothing  but  mis- 
ery; and  shame,  in  default  of  any  other  reason,  would 
forever  prevent  him  from  offering  himself  to  her. 

She  was  the  daughter  of  an  artist  who,  after  years  of 
struggle,  died  at  the  moment  when  fortune  was  begin- 
ning to  smile  upon  him.  Ten  years  more  of  work,  and 
he  would  have  left  his  family,  if  not  rich,  at  least  in  com- 
fortable circumstances.  In  reality,  he  left  nothing  but 
ruin.  The  hotel  he  built  was  sold,  and,  after  the  debts 
were  paid,  nothing  remained  but  some  furniture.  His 
widow,  son,  and  daughter  must  work.  The  widow, 
having  no  trade,  took  in  sewing;  the  son  left  college  to 
become  the  clerk  of  a  money-lender  named  Caffie ;  the 
daughter,  who,  happily  for  her,  had  learned  to  draw 
and  paint  under  her  father's  direction,  obtained  pupils, 
and  designed  menus  for  the  stationers,  and  painted  silk 
fans  and  boxes.  They  lived  with  great  economy,  sub- 
mitting to  many  privations.    The  brother,  weary  of  his 

[48] 


CONSCIENCE 

monotonous  existence  and  of  the  exactions  of  his  mas- 
ter, left  them  to  try  his  fortunes  in  America. 

If  Saniel  ever  married,  which  he  doubted,  certainly 
he  would  not  marry  a  woman  situated  as  Phillis  was. 

This  reflection  was  reassuring,  and  he  was  more  de- 
voted to  her.  Why  should  he  not  enjoy  the  delicious 
pleasure  of  seeing  her  and  listening  to  her?  His  life 
was  neither  gay  nor  happy;  he  felt  perfectly  sure  of 
himself,  and,  as  he  knew  her  now,  he  was  also  sure  of 
her — a  brave  and  honest  girl.  Otherwise,  how  had  she 
divined  that  he  loved  her? 

They  continued  to  see  each  other  with  a  pleasure  that 
seemed  equal  on  both  sides,  meeting  in  the  station,  ar- 
ranging to  take  the  same  trains,  and  talking  freely  and 
gayly. 

Things  went  on  this  way  until  the  approach  of  vaca- 
tion, when  they  decided  to  take  a  walk  after  their  last 
lesson,  instead  of  returning  immediately  to  Paris. 

When  the  day  came  the  sun  was  very  hot;  they  had 
walked  some  distance,  when  Phillis  expressed  a  wish  to 
rest  for  a  few  minutes.  They  seated  themselves  in  a 
shady  copse,  and  soon  found  themselves  in  each  other's 
arms. 

Since  then  Saniel  had  never  spoken  of  marriage,  and 
neither  had  Phillis. 

They  loved  each  other. 


[49] 


CHAPTER  VII 

A  LITTLE   DINNER  FOR  TWO 

■ANIEL  was  still  at  work  when  Phillis 
returned. 

"You  have  not  yet  finished,  dear?" 
"Give  me  time  to  cure,  by  corre- 
spondence, a    malady  that    has    not 
yielded  to  the  care  of  ten  physicians, 
and  I  am  yours." 

In  three  lines  he  finished  the  let- 
ter, and  left  his  desk. 

"I  am  ready.    What  shall  I  do?" 
"Help  me  to  take  things  out  of  my  pockets." 
"Don't  press  too  hard,"  she  said  as  he  took  each 
parcel. 
At  last  the  pockets  were  empty. 
"Where  shall  we  dine?"  she  asked. 
"Here,  as  the  dining-room  is  transformed  into  a  lab- 
oratory." 

"Then  let  us  begin  by  making  a  good  fire.  I  wet 
my  feet  coming  from  the  station." 

"I  do  not  know  whether  there  is  any  wood." 
"Let  us  see." 

She  took  the  candle  and  they  passed  into  the  kitchen, 
which,  like  the  dining-room,  was  a  laboratory,  a  stable 
where  Saniel  kept  in  cages  pigs  from  India  and  rabbits 

[50] 


CONSCIENCE 

for  his  experiments,  and  where  Joseph  heaped  pell-mell 
the  things  that  were  in  his  way,  without  paying  any  at- 
tention to  the  stove  in  which  there  never  had  been  a 
fire.  But  their  search  was  vain;  there  was  everything 
in  this  kitchen  except  fire- wood. 

"Do  you  value  these  boxes?"  she  asked,  caressing  a 
little  pig  that  she  had  taken  in  her  arms. 

"Not  at  all;  they  enclosed  the  perfumes  and  tonics, 
but  they  are  useless  now." 

They  returned  to  the  office,  Saniel  carrying  the  boxes. 

"We  will  set  the  table  here,"  she  said,  gayly,  for  Sa- 
niel told  her  that  the  dining-room  was  uninviting,  as 
it  was  a  small  bacteriological  laboratory. 

The  table  was  set  by  Phillis,  who  went  and  came, 
walking  about  with  a  gracefulness  that  Saniel  admired. 

"You  are  doing  nothing,"  she  said. 

"  I  am  watching  you  and  thinking." 

"And  the  result  of  these  thoughts?" 

"It  is  that  you  have  a  fund  of  good-humor  and 
gayety,  an  exuberance  of  life,  that  would  enliven  a  man 
condemned  to  death." 

"And  what  would  have  become  of  us,  I  should  like  to 
know,  if  I  had  been  melancholy  and  discouraged  when 
we  lost  my  poor  papa?  He  was  joy  itself,  singing  all 
day  long,  laughing  and  joking.  He  brought  me  up,  and 
I  am  like  him.  Mamma,  as  you  know,  is  melancholy 
and  nervous,  looking  on  the  dark  side,  and  Florentin 
is  like  her.  I  obtained  a  place  for  Florentin,  I  found 
work  for  mamma  and  for  myself.  We  all  took  cour- 
age, and  gradually  we  became  calm." 

She  looked  at  him  with  a  smile  that  said: 

[51] 


HECTOR  MALOT 

"Will  you  let  me  do  for  you  what  I  have  done  for 
others?" 

But  she  did  not  speak  these  words.  On  the  contrary, 
she  immediately  endeavored  to  destroy  the  impression 
which  she  believed  her  words  had  made  upon  him. 

"Go  and  bring  some  water,"  she  said,  "and  I  will 
light  the  fire." 

When  he  returned,  carrying  a  carafe,  the  fire  blazed 
brightly,  lighting  the  whole  room.  Phillis  was  seated  at 
the  desk,  writing. 

"What  are  you  doing?"  he  asked  in  surprise. 

"  I  am  writing  our  menu,  for  you  know  we  are  not  go- 
ing to  sit  down  at  the  table  like  the  bourgeois.  How  do 
you  like  it?" 

She  read  it  to  him. 

^^  Sardines  de  Nantes. 

"Cuisse  de  dinde  rotie. 

'^Terrine  de  pdte  de  joie  gras  aux  truffes  du  Peri- 
gord" 

"But  this  is  a  feast." 

"Did  you  think  that  I  would  offer  you  a  fricandeau 
aujus?^^ 

She  continued : 

"Frontage  de  Brie. 

"Choux  a  la  crtme  vanillee. 

"Pomme  de  Normandie. 

"Wine " 

"Ah!  Voila!  What  wine?  I  do  not  wish  to  deceive 
you.  Let  us  put,  'Wine  from  the  wine-seller  at  the 
comer.'    And  now  we  will  sit  down." 

As  he  was  about  to  seat  himself,  she  said : 

[52] 


\ 


CONSCIENCE 

"You  do  not  give  me  your  arm  to  conduct  me  to  the 
table.  If  we  do  not  do  things  seriously  and  methodi- 
cally we  shall  not  believe  in  them,  and  perhaps  the 
Perigord  truffles  will  change  into  little  black  pieces  of 
anything  else." 

When  they  were  seated  opposite  to  each  other,  she 
continued,  jesting: 

"My  dear  doctor,  did  you  go  to  the  representation 
of  Don  Jimn,  on  Monday?" 

And  Saniel,  who,  in  spite  of  all,  had  kept  a  sober  face, 
now  laughed  loudly. 

** Charming!  "  she  cried,  clapping  her  hands.  "No 
more  preoccupation,  no  more  cares.  Look  into  my 
eyes,  dear  Victor,  and  think  only  of  the  present  hour, 
of  the  joy  of  being  together,  of  our  love." 

She  reached  her  hand  over  the  table,  and  he  pressed 
it  in  his. 

"Very  well."  The  dinner  continued  gayly,  Saniel  re- 
plying to  Phillis's  smiles,  who  would  not  permit  the 
conversation  to  languish.  She  helped  him  to  each  dish, 
poured  out  his  wine,  leaving  her  chair  occasionally  to 
put  a  piece  of  wood  on  the  fire,  and  such  shoutings  and 
laughter  had  never  been  heard  before  in  that  office. 

However,  she  noticed  that,  little  by  little,  SaniePs 
face,  that  relaxed  one  moment,  was  the  next  clouded  by 
the  preoccupation  and  bitterness  that  she  had  tried 
hard  to  chase  away.    She  would  make  a  new  effort. 

"Does  not  this  charming  little  dinner  give  you  the 
wish  to  repeat  it?" 

"Howr    Where?" 

"As  I  am  able  to  come  this  evening  without  making 

[53] 


HECTOR  MALOT 

mamma  uneasy,  I  shall  find  some  excuse  to  come  again 
next  week." 

He  shook  his  head. 

"Have  you  engagements  for  the  whole  of  next  week ? " 
she  asked  with  uneasiness. 

"Where  shall  I  be  next  week,  to-morrow,  in  a  few 
days?" 

"You  alarm  me.  Explain,  I  beg  of  you.  O  Victor, 
have  pity!    Do  not  leave  me  in  suspense." 

"You  are  right;  I  ought  to  tell  you  everything,  and 
not  let  your  tender  heart  torment  itself,  trying  to  ex- 
plain my  preoccupation." 

"If  you  have  cares,  do  you  not  esteem  me  enough  to 
let  me  share  them  with  you?  You  know  that  I  love 
you;  you  only,  to-day,  to-morrow,  forever!" 

Saniel  had  not  left  her  ignorant  of  the  difficulties  of 
his  position,  but  he  had  not  entered  into  details,  pre- 
ferring to  speak  of  his  hopes  rather  than  of  his  present 
misery. 

The  story  that  he  had  already  told  to  Glady  and 
Caffie  he  now  told  to  Phillis,  adding  what  had  passed 
with  the  concierge,  the  wine-seller,  the  coal  man,  and 
Joseph. 

She  listened,  stupefied. 

"He  took  your  coat?"  she  murmured. 

"That  was  what  he  came  for." 

"And  to-morrow?" 

' '  Ah !   to-morrow — to-morrow ! ' ' 

"Working  so  hard  as  you  have,  how  did  you  come  to 
such  a  pass?" 

"Like  you,  I  believed  in  the  virtue  of  worj?^,  and  look 

[54] 


CONSCIENCE 

at  me!  Because  I  felt  within  me  a  will  that  nothing 
could  weaken,  a  strength  that  nothing  could  fatigue,  a 
courage  that  nothing  could  dishearten,  I  imagined  that 
I  was  armed  for  battle  in  such  a  way  that  I  should  never 
be  conquered,  and  I  am  conquered,  as  much  by  the 

fault  of  circumstances  as  by  my  own " 

"And  in  what  are  you  to  blame,  poor  dear?" 
"  For  my  ignorance  of  life,  stupidity,  presumption,  and 
blindness.  If  I  had  been  less  simple,  should  I  have  been 
taken  in  by  Jardine's  propositions  ?  Should  I  have  ac- 
cepted this  furniture,  this  apartment?  He  told  me  that 
the  papers  he  made  me  sign  were  mere  formalities,  that 
in  reality  I  might  pay  when  I  could,  and  that  he  would 
be  content  with  a  fair  interest.  That  seemed  reasonable, 
and,  without  inquiring  further,  I  accepted,  happy  and 
delighted  to  have  a  home,  feeling  sure  of  having  strength 
to  bear  this  burden.  To  have  confidence  in  one's  self 
is  strength,  but  it  is  also  weakness.  Because  you  love 
me  you  do  not  know  me;  you  do  not  see  me  as  I  am. 
In  reality,  I  am  not  sociable,  and  I  lack,  absolutely, 
suppleness,  delicacy,  politeness,  as  much  in  my  char- 
acter as  in  my  manners.  Being  so,  how  can  I  obtain  a 
large  practice,  or  succeed,  unless  it  is  by  some  stroke  of 
luck  ?  I  have  counted  on  the  luck,  but  its  hour  has  not 
yet  sounded.  Because  I  lack  suppleness  I  have  not 
been  able  to  win  the  sympathy  or  interest  of  my  mas- 
ters. They  see  only  my  reserve;  and  because  I  stay 
away  from  them,  as  much  through  timidity  as  pride, 
they  do  not  come  to  me — which  is  quite  natural,  I  ad- 
mit. And  because  I  have  not  yielded  my  ideas  to  the 
authority  of  others,  they  have  taken  a  dislike  to  me, 

[55] 


HECTOR  MALOT 

which  is  still  more  natural.  Because  I  lack  politeness, 
and  am  still  an  Auvergnat,  heavy  and  awkward  as 
nature  made  me,  men  of  the  world  disdain  me,  judging 
me  by  my  exterior,  which  they  see  and  dislike.  More 
wary,  more  sly,  more  experienced,  I  should  be,  at  least, 
sustained  by  friendship,  but  I  have  given  no  thought  to 
it.  What  good  is  it?  I  had  no  need  of  it,  my  force 
was  sufficient.  I  find  it  more  easy  to  make  myself 
feared  than  loved.  Thus  formed,  there  are  only  two 
things  for  me  to  do:  remain  in  my  poor  room  in  the 
Hotel  du  Senat,  living  by  giving  lessons  and  by  work 
from  the  booksellers,  until  the  examination  and  admis- 
sion to  the  central  bureau ;  or  to  establish  myself  in  an 
out-of-the-way  quarter  at  Belleville,  Montrouge,  or 
elsewhere,  and  there  practise  among  people  who  will  de- 
mand neither  politeness  nor  fine  manners.  As  these 
two  ways  are  reasonable,  I  have  made  up  my  mind  to 
neither.  Belleville,  because  I  should  work  only  with  my 
legs,  like  one  of  my  comrades  whom  I  saw  work  at  Vil- 
lette:  'Your  tongue,  good.  Your  arm,  good.'  And 
while  he  is  supposed  to  be  feeling  the  pulse  of  the  pa- 
tient with  one  hand,  with  the  other  he  is  writing  his  pre- 
scription: 'Vomitive,  purgative,  forty  sous;'  and  he 
hurries  away,  his  diagnosis  having  taken  less  than  five 
minutes;  he  had  no  time  to  waste.  I  object  to  the  Hotel 
du  Senat  because  I  have  had  enough  of  it,  and  it  was 
there  that  Jardine  tempted  me  with  his  proposals.  See 
what  he  has  brought  me  to!" 
"And  now?" 


[56] 


CHAPTER  VIII 

EXPLANATIONS 

*T  this  moment,  without  warning,  the 
candle  on  the  table  went  out. 

Phillis  rose.     "Where  are  the  can- 
dles? she  asked. 

"There  are  no  more;   this  was  the 
last." 

"Then  we   must  brighten   up   the 
fire." 

She  threw  a  small  log  on  the  hearth,  and  then,  instead 
of  resuming  her  seat,  she  took  a  cushion  from  the  sofa, 
and  placing  it  before  the  chimney,  threw  herself  upon 
it,  and  leaned  her  elbow  on  SaniePs  knee. 

"And  now?"  she  repeated,  her  eyes  raised  to  his. 
"Now  I  suppose  the  only  thing  for  me  to  do  is  to  re- 
turn to  Auvergne  and  become  a  country  doctor." 

"My  God!  is  it  possible?"  she  murmured  in  a  tone 
that  surprised  Saniel.  If  there  was  sadness  in  this  cry, 
there  was  also  a  sentiment  that  he  did  not  understand. 
"  On  leaving  the  school  I  could  continue  to  live  at  the 
Hotel  du  Senat,  and,  while  giving  lessons,  prepare  my 
concours;  now,  after  having  reached  a  certain  position, 
can  I  return  to  this  life  of  poverty  and  study?  My 
creditors,  who  have  fallen  on  me  here,  will  harass  me, 
and  my  competitors  will  mock  my  misery — which  is 

[57] 


HEGTOR  MALOT 

caused  by  my  vices.  They  will  think  that  I  dishonor 
the  Faculty,  and  I  shall  be  rebuffed.  Neither  doctor  of 
the  hospitals  nor  fellow,  I  shall  be  reduced  to  nothing 
but  a  doctor  of  the  quarter.  Of  what  use  is  it?  The 
effort  has  been  made  here;  you  see  how  it  has  suc- 
ceeded." 

"Then  you  mean  to  go?" 

"Not  without  sorrow  and  despair,  since  it  will  be  our 
separation,  the  renouncement  of  all  the  hopes  on  which 
I  have  lived  for  ten  years,  the  abandonment  of  my  work, 
death  itself.  You  see  now  why,  in  spite  of  your  gayety, 
I  have  not  been  able  to  hide  my  preoccupation  from 
you.  The  more  charming  you  were,  the  more  I  felt 
how  dear  you  are,  and  the  greater  my  despair  at  the 
thought  of  separation." 

"Why  should  we  separate?" 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

She  turned  toward  him. 

"To  go  with  you.  You  must  acknowledge  that  until 
this  moment  I  have  never  spoken  to  you  of  marriage, 
and  never  have  I  let  the  thought  appear  that  you  might 
one  day  make  me  your  wife.  In  your  position,  in  the 
struggle  you  have  been  through,  a  wife  would  have  been 
a  burden  that  would  have  paralyzed  you;  above  all, 
such  a  poor,  miserable  creature  as  myself,  with  no  dot 
but  her  misery  and  that  of  her  family.  But  the  condi- 
tions are  no  longer  the  same.  You  are  as  miserable 
as  I  am,  and  more  desperate.  In  your  own  country, 
where  you  have  only  distant  relatives  who  are  nothing 
to  you,  as  they  have  not  your  education  or  ideas,  desires 
or  habits,  what  will  become  of  you  all  alone  with  your 

[58] 


CONSCIENCE 

disappointment  and  regrets?  If  you  accept  me,  I  will 
go  with  you ;  together,  and  loving  each  other,  we  cannot 
be  unhappy  anywhere.  When  you  come  home  fa- 
tigued you  will  find  me  with  a  smile ;  when  you  stay  at 
home  you  will  tell  me  your  thoughts,  and  explain  your 
work,  and  I  will  try  to  understand.  I  have  no  fear  of 
poverty,  you  know,  and  neither  do  I  fear  solitude. 
Wherever  we  are  together  I  shall  be  happy.  All  that  I 
ask  of  you  is  to  take  my  mother  with  us,  because  you 
know  I  cannot  leave  her  alone.  In  attending  her,  you 
have  learned  to  know  her  well  enough  to  know  that  she 
is  not  disagreeable  or  difficult  to  please.  As  for  Floren- 
tin,  he  will  remain  in  Paris  and  work.  His  trip  to  Amer- 
ica has  made  him  wise,  and  his  ambition  will  now  be 
easily  satisfied ;  to  earn  a  small  salary  is  all  that  he  asks. 
Without  doubt  we  shall  be  a  burden,  but  not  so  heavy 
as  one  might  think  at  first.  A  woman,  when  she  chooses, 
brings  order  and  economy  into  a  house,  and  I  promise 
you  that  I  will  be  that  woman.  And  then  I  will  work. 
I  am  sure  my  stationer  wiU  give  me  as  many  menus 
when  I  am  in  Auvergne  as  he  does  now  that  I  am  in 
Paris.  I  could,  also,  without  doubt,  procure  other 
work.  It  would  be  a  hundred  francs  a  month,  perhaps 
a  hundred  and  fifty,  perhaps  even  two  hundred.  While 
waiting  for  your  patients  to  come,  we  could  live  on  this 
money.    In  Auvergne  living  must  be  cheap." 

She  had  taken  his  hands  in  hers,  and  she  watched 
anxiously  his  face  as  the  firelight  shone  on  it,  to  see  the 
effect  of  her  words.  It  was  the  life  of  both  of  them  that 
was  to  be  decided,  and  the  fulness  of  her  heart  made 
her  voice  tremble.    What  would  he  reply?    She  saw 

[59] 


HECTOR  MALOT 

that  his  face  was  agitated,  without  being  able  to  read 
more. 

As  she  remained  silent,  he  took  her  head  in  his  hands, 
and  looked  in  her  face  for  several  moments. 

"How  you  love  me!"  he  said. 

"Let  me  prove  it  in  some  way  besides  in  words." 

"It  would  be  cowardly  to  let  you  share  my  misery." 

"It  would  be  loving  me  enough  to  feel  sure  that  I 
would  be  happy." 

"And  I?" 

"Is  not  the  love  in  your  heart  greater  than  pride? 
Do  you  not  feel  that  since  I  have  loved  you  my  love  has 
filled  all  my  life,  and  that  there  is  nothing  in  the  world, 
in  the  present  or  in  the  future,  but  it  and  you  ?  Beqause 
I  see  you  for  several  hours  from  time  to  time  in  PariSy^ 
am  happy;  whatever  difficulties  await  us,  I  should  be 
much  happier  in  Auvergne,  because  we  should  be  to- 
gether always." 

He  remained  silent  for  some  time. 

"Could  you  love  me  there?"  he  murmured. 

Evidently  it  was  more  to  himself  than  to  her  that  he 
addressed  this  question,  which  was  the  sum  of  his  re- 
flections. 

"O  dear  Victor!"  she  cried.  "Why  do  you  doubt 
me?  Have  I  deserved  it?  The  past,  the  present,  do 
they  not  assure  the  future?" 

He  shook  his  head. 

"The  man  you  have  loved,  whom  you  love,  has  never 
shown  himself  to  you  as  he  really  is.  In  spite  of  the 
trials  and  sorrows  of  his  life  he  has  been  able  to  answer 
your  anile  with  a  smile,  because,  cruel  as  his  life  was, 

[603 


CONSCIENCE 

he  was  sustained  by  hope  and  confidence ;  in  Auvergne 
there  will  be  no  more  hope  or  confidence,  but  the  mad- 
ness of  a  broken  life,  and  the  dejection  of  impotence. 
What  sort  of  man  should  I  be  ?  Could  you  love  such 
a  man?" 

"A  thousand  times  more,  for  he  would  be  unhappy, 
and  I  should  have  to  comfort  him." 

"Would  you  have  the  strength  to  do  it?  After  a  time 
you  would  become  weary,  for  the  burden  would  be  too 
heavy,  however  great  your  devotion  or  profound  your 
tenderness,  to  see  my  real  position  and  my  hopes,  and, 
descending  into  the  future,  to  see  my  ruin.  You  know 
I  am  ambitious  without  having  ever  compassed  the 
scope  of  this  ambition,  and  of  the  hopes,  dreams  if  you 
like,  on  which  it  rests.  Understand  that  these  dreams 
are  on  the  eve  of  being  realized ;  two  months  more,  and 
in  December  or  January  I  pass  the  concours  for  the  cen- 
tral bureau,  which  will  make  me  a  physician  of  the  hos- 
pitals, and  at  the  same  time  the  one  for  the  admission, 
which  opens  the  Faculty  of  Medicine  to  me.  Without 
pride,  I  believe  myself  in  a  position  to  succeed — what 
sportsmen  call  *in  condition.'  And  just  when  I  have 
only  a  few  days  to  wait,  behold  me  ruined  forever." 

"Why  forever?" 

"A  man  leaves  his  village  for  Paris  to  make  a  name 
for  himself,  and  he  returns  only  when  bad  luck  or  ina- 
bility sends  him  back.  And  then  it  is  only  every  four 
years  that  there  is  a  concours  for  admission.  In  four 
years  what  will  be  my  moral  and  intellectual  condition  ? 
How  should  I  support  this  exile  of  four  years?  Imag- 
ine the  efiFect  that  four  years  of  isolation  in  the  moun- 

[6i] 


HECTOR  MALOT 

tains  will  produce.  But  this  is  not  all.  Besides  this  os- 
tensible end  that  I  have  pursued  since  I  left  my  village, 
I  have  my  special  work  that  I  can  carry  out  only  in 
Paris.  Without  having  overwhelmed  you  with  the  de- 
tails of  medicine,  you  know  that  it  is  about  to  undergo 
a  revolution  that  will  transform  it.  Until  now  it  has 
been  taught  officially,  in  pathology,  that  the  human  or- 
ganism carries  within  itself  the  germ  of  a  great  many 
infectious  diseases  which  develop  spontaneously  in  cer- 
tain conditions;  for  instance,  that  tuberculosis  is  the 
result  of  fatigue,  privations,  and  physiological  mis- 
eries. Well,  recently  it  has  been  admitted,  that  is  to 
say,  the  revolutionists  admit,  a  parasitical  origin  for 
these  diseases,  and  in  France  and  Germany  there  is  an 
army  looking  for  these  parasites.  I  am  a  soldier  in  this 
army,  and  to  help  me  in  these  researches  I  established  a 
laboratory  in  the  dining-room.  It  is  to  the  parasites  of 
tuberculosis  and  cancers  that  I  devote  myself,  and  for 
seven  years,  that  is,  since  I  was  house-surgeon,  my  com- 
rades have  called  me  the  cancer  topic.  I  have  discov- 
ered the  parasite  of  the  tuberculosis,  but  I  have  not  yet 
been  able  to  free  it  from  all  its  impurities  by  the  process 
of  culture.  I  am  still  at  it.  That  is  to  say,  I  am  very 
near  it,  and  to-morrow,  perhaps,  or  in  a  few  days,  I 
may  make  a  discovery  that  will  be  a  revolution,  and 
cover  its  discoverer  with  glory.  The  same  with  the 
cancer.  I  have  found  its  microbe.  But  all  is  not  done. 
See  what  I  must  give  up  in  leaving  Paris." 

"Why  give  all  this  up?  Could  you  not  continue 
your  researches  in  x\uvergne  ?  " 

"It  is  impossible,  for  many  reasons  that  are  too  long 
—    -  [62] 


CONSCIENCE 

to  explain,  but  one  will  suffice.  The  culture  of  these 
parasites  can  be  done  only  in  certain  temperatures  rig- 
orously maintained  at  the  necessary  degree,  and  these 
temperatures  can  be  obtained  only  by  stoves,  like  the 
one  in  my  laboratory,  fed  by  gas,  the  entrance  of  which 
is  automatically  regulated  by  the  temperature  of  the 
water.  How  could  I  use  this  stove  in  a  country  where 
there  is  no  gas?  No,  no!  If  I  leave  Paris,  everything 
is  at  an  end — ^my  position,  as  well  as  my  work.  I  shall 
become  a  country  doctor,  and  nothing  but  a  country 
doctor.  Let  the  sheriff  turn  me  out  to-morrow,  and  all 
the  four  years'  accumulations  in  my  laboratory,  all  my 
works  en  train  that  demand  only  a  few  days  or  hours 
to  complete,  may  go  to  the  second-hand  dealer,  or  be 
thrown  into  the  street.  Of  all  my  efforts,  weary  nights, 
privations,  and  hopes,  there  remains  only  one  souvenir 
— for  me.  And  yet,  if  it  did  not  remain,  perhaps  I 
should  be  less  exasperated,  and  should  accept  with  a 
heart  less  sore  the  life  to  which  I  shall  never  resign  my- 
self. You  know  very  well  that  I  am  a  rebel,  and  do 
not  submit  tamely." 

She  rose,  and  taking  his  hand,  pressed  it  closely  in 
her  own. 

"You  must  stay  in  Paris,"  she  said.  "Pardon  me 
for  having  insisted  that  you  could  live  in  the  country. 
I  thought  more  of  myself  than  of  you,  of  our  love  and 
our  marriage.  It  was  an  egotistic  thought,  a  bad 
thought.  A  way  must  be  found,  no  matter  what  it 
costs,  to  enable  you  to  continue  your  work." 

"But  how  to  find  it?  Do  you  think  I  have  not  tried 
everything?" 

[63] 


HECTOR  MALOT 

He  related  his  visits  to  Jardine,  his  solicitations, 
prayers,  and  also  his  request  of  a  loan  from  Glady,  and 
his  visit  to  Caffie. 

"Caffie!"  she  cried.  "What  made  you  think  of  go- 
ing to  Caffi<5  ? " 

"I went  partly  because  you  had  often  spoken  of 
him." 

"But  I  spoke  of  him  to  you  as  the  most  wicked  of 
men,  capable  of  anything  and  everything  that  is  bad." 

"And  partly,  also,  because  I  knew  from  one  of  my 
patients  that  he  lends  to  those  of  whom  he  can  make 
use." 

"What  did  he  say  to  you?" 

"That  it  was  probable  he  would  not  be  able  to  find 
any  one  who  would  lend  what  I  wished,  but  he  would 
try  to  find  some  one,  and  would  give  me  an  answer  to- 
morrow evening.  He  also  promised  to  protect  me  from 
Jardine." 

"You  have  put  yourself  in  his  hands?" 

"Well,  what  do  you  expect ?  In  my  position,  I  am  not 
at  liberty  to  go  to  whom  I  wish  and  to  those  who  inspire 
me  with  confidence  in  their  honor.  If  I  should  go  to  a 
notary  or  a  banker  they  would  not  listen  to  me,  for  I 
should  be  obliged  to  tell  them,  the  first  thing,  that  I 
have  no  security  to  offer.  That  is  how  the  unfortunate 
fall  into  the  hands  of  rascals;  at  least,  these  listen  to 
them,  and  lend  them  something,  small  though  it  may 
be." 

"What  did  he  give  you?" 

"Advice." 

"And  you  took  it?" 

[64] 


CONSCIENCE 

"There  is  time  gained.  To-morrow,  perhaps,  I  shall 
be  turned  into  the  street.    Caffi^  will  obtain  a  respite." 

"And  what  price  will  he  ask  for  this  service?" 

"It  is  only  those  who  own  something  who  worry 
about  the  price." 

"You  have  your  name,  dignity,  and  honor,  and  once 
you  are  in  Cafl&^'s  hands,  who  knows  what  he  may  ex- 
act from  you,  what  he  may  make  you  do,  without  your 
being  able  to  resist  him?" 

"Then  you  wish  me  to  leave  Paris?" 

"Certainly  not;  but  I  wish  you  to  be  on  your  guard 
against  Caffi^,  whom  you  do  not  know,  but  I  do,  through 
what  Florentin  told  us  when  he  was  with  him.  How- 
ever secret  a  man  may  be,  he  cannot  hide  himself  from 
his  clerk.  He  is  not  only  guilty  of  rascalities,  but  also 
of  real  crimes.  I  assure  you  that  he  deserves  ten  deaths. 
To  gain  a  hundred  francs  he  will  do  anything;  he 
makes  money  only  for  the  pleasure  of  making  it,  for  he 
has  neither  child  nor  relative." 

"Well,  I  promise  to  be  on  my  guard  as  you  advise. 
But,  wicked  as  Caffi^  may  be,  I  believe  that  I  shall  ac- 
cept the  concours  that  he  offered  me.  Who  knows  what 
may  happen  in  the  short  time  that  he  gains  for  me? 
Because  I  need  not  tell  you  that  I  know  beforehand 
what  his  reply  will  be  to  my  request  for  a  loan — he  could 
find  no  one." 

"I  shall  come,  all  the  same,  to-morrow  evening  to 
*  learn  his  answer." 


[65 1 


CHAPTER  IX 


CAFFEE'S  ANSWER 


.THOUGH  Saniel  did  not  build  any 
false  hopes  on  Caffie's  reply,  he  went 
to  see  him  the  next  afternoon  at  the 
same  hour. 

As  before,  he  waited  some  time  after 
ringing  the  bell.  At  last  he  heard  a 
slow  step  within. 

"Who  is  there?"  Caffie  asked. 
As  soon  as  Saniel  answered,  the  door  was  opened. 
"As  I  do  not  like  to  be  disturbed  in  the  evening  by 
troublesome  people,  I  do  not  always  open  the  door," 
Caffie  said.    "But  I  have  a  signal  for  my  clients  so  that 
I  may  know  them.    After  ringing,  knock  three  times  on 
the  door." 
During  this  explanation  they  entered  Caffie's  office. 
"Have  you  done  anything  about  my  affair?"  Saniel 
asked,  after  a  moment,  as  Caffie  seemed  disinclined  to 
open  the  conversation. 

"Yes,  my  dear  sir.    I  have  been  running  about  all 
the  morning  for  you.    I  never  neglect  my  clients;  their 
affairs  are  mine." 
He  paused. 
"Well?"  Saniel  said. 
Caffie  put  on  an  expression  of  despair. 
"What  did  I  tell  you,  my  dear  sir?    Do  you  remem- 

[66] 


CONSCIENCE 

ber?  Do  me  the  honor  to  believe  that  a  man  of  my  ex- 
perience does  not  speak  lightly.  What  I  foresaw  has 
come  to  pass.  Everywhere  I  received  the  same  reply. 
The  risk  is  too  great;  no  one  would  take  it." 

"Not  even  for  a  large  interest?" 

"Not  even  for  a  large  interest;  there  is  so  much  com- 
petition in  your  profession.  As  for  me,  I  believe  in 
your  future,  and  I  have  proved  it  by  my  proposition; 
but,  unfortunately,  I  am  only  an  intermediary,  and  not 
the  lender  of  money." 

Caffie  emphasized  the  words,  "my  proposition,"  and 
underlined  them  with  a  glance;  but  Saniel  did  not  ap- 
pear to  understand. 

"And  the  upholsterer's  summons?"  he  asked. 

"You  may  be  easy  on  that  point.  I  have  attended  to 
it.  Your  landlord,  to  whom  he  owes  rent,  will  inter- 
fere, and  your  creditor  must  indemnify  him  before 
going  farther.  Will  he  submit  ?  We  shall  see.  If  he 
does,  we  shall  defend  ourselves  on  some  other  ground. 
I  do  not  say  victoriously,  but  in  a  way  to  gain  time." 

"How  much  time?" 

"That,  my  dear  sir,  I  do  not  know;  the  whole  thing 
depends  upon  our  adversary.  But  what  do  you  mean 
by  ' how  much  time ? ' — eternity?" 

"I  mean  until  April." 

"That  is  eternity.  Do  you  believe  that  you  will  be 
able  to  free  yourself  in  April  ?  If  you  have  expectations 
founded  on  something  substantial,  you  should  tell  me 
what  they  are,  my  dear  sir." 

This  question  was  put  with  such  an  air  of  benevo- 
lence, that  Saniel  was  taken  in  by  it. 

[67] 


HECTOR  MALOT 

"I  have  no  guarantee,"  he  said.  "But,  on  the  other 
hand,  it  is  of  the  utmost  importance  to  me  that  I  should 
have  this  length  of  time.  As  I  have  explained  to  you,  I 
am  about  to  pass  two  examinations;  they  will  last  three 
months,  and  in  March,  or,  at  the  latest,  in  April,  I  shall 
be  a  physician  of  the  hospitals,  and  fellow  of  the  Faculty. 
In  that  case  I  should  then  offer  a  surface  to  the  lenders, 
that  would  permit  you,  without  doubt,  to  find  the  sum 
necessary  to  pay  Jardine,  whatever  expenses  there  may 
be,  and  your  fee." 

As  he  spoke,  Saniel  saw  that  he  was  wrong  in  thus 
committing  himself,  but  he  continued  to  the  end. 

"I  should  be  unworthy  of  your  confidence,  my  dear 
sir,"  Caffie  replied,  "if  I  encouraged  you  with  the  idea 
that  we  could  gain  so  much  time.  Whatever  it  costs 
me — and  it  costs  me  much,  I  assure  you — I  must  tell 
you  that  it  is  impossible,  radically  impossible;  a  few 
days,  yes,  or  a  few  weeks,  but  that  is  all." 

"Well,  obtain  a  few  weeks,"  Saniel  said,  rising,  "that 
will  be  something." 

"And  afterward?" 

"We  shall  see." 

"My  dear  sir,  do  not  go.  You  would  not  believe 
how  much  I  am  touched  by  your  position ;  I  think  only 
of  you.  When  I  learned  that  I  could  not  find  the  sum 
you  desire,  I  paid  a  friendly  visit  to  my  young  client  of 
whom  I  spoke  to  you " 

"The  one  who  received  a  superior  education  in  a 
fashionable  convent  ?  " 

"Exactly;  and  I  asked  her  what  she  would  think  of 
a  young  doctor,  full  of  talent,  future  professor  of  the 

[68] 


CONSCIENCE 

Faculty,  actually  considered  already  a  savant  of  the 
first  order,  handsome — because  you  are  handsome,  my 
dear  sir,  and  it  is  no  flattery  to  say  this — in  good  health, 
a  peasant  by  birth,  who  presented  himself  as  a  husband. 
She  appeared  flattered,  I  tell  you  frankly.  But  imme- 
diately afterward  she  said, '  And  the  child  ? '  To  which  I 
replied  that  you  were  too  good,  too  noble,  too  generous, 
not  to  have  the  indulgence  of  superior  men,  who  accept 
an  involuntary  fault  with  serenity.    Did  I  go  too  far?" 

He  did  not  wait  for  an  answer. 

"No?"  he  went  on.  "Exactly.  The  child  was  pres- 
ent, for  the  mother  watches  over  it  with  a  solicitude  that 
promises  much  for  the  future,  and  I  examined  it  leis- 
urely. It  is  very  delicate,  my  dear  sir,  and  like  its  father. 
The  poor  baby!  I  doubt  if  you,  with  aU  your  skill,  can 
make  it  live.  If  it  should  die,  as  it  is  to  be  feared  it  will, 
it  would  not  injure  your  reputation.  You  can  give  it 
care,  but  not  life." 

"Speaking  of  health,"  interrupted  Saniel,  who  did 
not  wish  to  reply,  "did  you  do  what  I  advised  about 
yourself?" 

"Not  yet.  The  chemists  of  this  quarter  are  only  li- 
censed cutthroats;  but  I  am  going  this  evening  to  see 
one  of  my  clients  who  is  a  chemist,  and  he  will  deal 
honestly  with  me." 

"I  will  see  you  again,  then." 

"When  you  wish,  my  dear  sir;  when  you  have  re- 
flected.   You  have  the  password." 

Before  leaving  home  Saniel  gave  his  key  to  the  con- 
cierge, so  that  on  her  arrival  Phillis  might  go  immedi- 
ately to  his  rooms.    On  his  return  the  concierge  told 

[69] 


HECTOR  MALOT 

him  that  "madame"  was  up-stairs,  and  when  he  rang 
the  bell,  Phillis  opened  the  door. 

"Well?"  she  asked  m  a  trembling  voice,  before  he 
had  time  to  enter. 

"It  is  as  I  told  you  yesterday;  he  has  found  no  one." 

She  clasped  him  in  a  long,  passionate  embrace. 

"And  the  upholsterer?" 

"Caffie  has  promised  to  gain  some  time  for  me." 

While  speaking,  they  entered  the  office.  A  fire 
burned  on  the  hearth,  and  an  inviting  dinner  was  on  the 
table.    Saniel  looked  at  it  in  surprise. 

"I  have  set  the  table,  you  see;  I  am  going  to  dine 
with  you." 

And  throwing  herself  in  his  arms: 

"Knowing  Caffie  better  than  you  do,  I  knew  what 
his  answer  would  be,  and  I  did  not  wish  you  to  be  alone 
on  your  return.  I  made  an  excuse  for  not  dining  with 
mamma." 

"But  this  chicken?" 

"We  must  have  a  piece  de  resistance." 

"This  fire,  and  these  candles?" 

"There,  that  is  the  end  of  my  economies.  I  should 
have  been  so  happy  if  they  had  been  less  miserable  and 
more  useful." 

As  on  the  previous  evening,  they  sat  before  the  fire, 
and  she  began  to  talk  of  various  things  in  order  to  dis- 
tract him.  But  what  their  lips  did  not  say,  their  eyes, 
on  meeting,  expressed  with  more  intensity  than  words 
could  do. 

It  was  Saniel  who  suddenly  betrayed  his  preoccu- 
pation. 

[70] 


CONSCIENCE 

"Your  brother  studied  Caffie  well,"  he  said,  as  if 
speaking  to  himself. 

"He  did,  indeed!" 

"He  is  certainly  the  most  thorough  rascal  that  I  have 
ever  met." 

"He  proposed  something  infamous,  I  am  sure." 

"He  proposed  that  I  should  marry." 

"I  suspected  that." 

"This  is  the  reason  why  he  refuses  to  lend  me  the 
money.  I  was  foolish  enough  to  tell  him  frankly  just 
how  I  am  situated,  and  how  important  it  is  for  me  to 
be  free  until  April.  He  hopes  that  I  shall  be  so  pushed 
that  I  will  accept  one  of  the  women  whom  he  has  pro- 
posed to  me.  With  the  knife  at  my  throat,  I  should 
have  to  yield." 

"And  these  women?"  she  asked,  not  daring  to  look 
at  him. 

"Do  not  be  alarmed,  you  have  nothing  to  fear.  One 
is  the  drunken  widow  of  a  butcher,  and  the  other  is  a 
young  girl  who  has  a  baby." 

"  He  dares  to  propose  such  women  to  a  man  like  you ! " 

And  Saniel  repeated  all  that  Caffie  had  said  to  him 
about  these  two  women. 

"What  a  monster  he  is!"  Phillis  said. 

"While  he  was  telling  me  these  things  I  thought  of 
what  you  said — that  if  some  one  killed  him,  it  would  be 
no  more  than  he  deserved." 

"That  is  perfectly  true." 

"Nothing  would  have  been  easier  than  for  me  to 
have  made  away  with  him.  He  had  the  toothache,  and 
when  he  showed  me  his  teeth  I  could  easily  have  stran- 

[71] 


HECTOR  MALOT 

gled  him.  We  were  alone,  and  a  miserable  diabetic, 
such  as  he  is,  who  has  not  more  than  six  months  to  live, 
I  am  sure,  could  not  have  resisted  a  grasp  like  this.  I 
could  take  his  keys  from  his  pocket,  open  his  safe,  and 
take  the  thirty,  forty,  sixty  thousand  francs  that  I  saw 
heaped  up  there.  The  devil  take  me  if  it  were  ever  dis- 
covered. A  doctor  does  not  strangle  his  patients,  he  poi- 
sons them.     He  kills  them  scientifically,  not  brutally." 

"People  who  have  no  conscience  can  do  such  things; 
but  for  us  they  are  impossible." 

'T  assure  you  it  is  not  conscience  that  would  have 
restrained  me." 

"The  fear  of  remorse,  if  I  may  use  an  ugly  word." 

"But  intelligent  persons  have  no  remorse,  my  dear 
child,  because  they  reason  before  the  deed,  and  not 
after.  Before  acting  they  weigh  the  pros  and  cons,  and 
know  what  the  consequences  of  their  actions  will  be  to 
others  as  well  as  to  themselves.  If  this  previous  exam- 
ination proves  to  them  that  for  some  reason  or  other 
they  may  act,  they  will  always  be  calm,  assured  that 
they  will  feel  no  remorse,  which  is  only  the  reproach  of 
conscience." 

"Without  doubt  what  you  say  is  to  the  point,  but  it 
is  impossible  for  me  to  accept  it.  If  I  have  never  com- 
mitted crimes,  I  have  often  been  foolish  and  have  com- 
mitted faults,  many  of  them  deliberately,  after  the  ex- 
amination of  which  you  speak.  I  should  have  been, 
according  to  you,  perfectly  placid  and  free  from  the  re- 
proach of  conscience;  however,  the  next  morning  I 
woke  unhappy,  tormented,  often  overwhelmed,  and  un- 
able to  stifle  the  mysterious  voice  that  accused  me." 

[72] 


CONSCIENCE 

"And  in  whose  name  did  it  speak,  this  voice,  more 
vague  than  mysterious?" 

"In  the  name  of  my  conscience,  evidently." 

"'Evidently'  is  too  much,  and  you  would  be  puzzled 
if  called  upon  to  demonstrate  this  evidence;  whereas, 
nothing  is  more  uncertain  and  elusive  than  the  thing 
that  is  called  conscience,  which  is  in  reality  only  an 
affair  of  environment  and  of  education." 

"I  do  not  understand." 

"Does  your  conscience  tell  you  it  is  a  crime  to  love 
me?" 

"No,  decidedly." 

"You  see,  then,  that  you  have  a  personal  way  of  un- 
derstanding what  is  good  and  bad,  which  is  not  that  of 
our  country,  where  it  is  admitted,  from  the  religious 
and  from  the  social  point  of  view,  that  a  young  girl  is 
guilty  when  she  has  a  lover.  Of  course,  you  see,  also, 
that  conscience  is  a  bad  weighing-machine,  since  each 
one,  in  order  to  make  it  work,  uses  a  weight  that  he  has 
himself  manufactured." 

"However  it  is,  you  did  right  not  to  strangle  Caifi^." 

"Whom  you,  yourself,  have  condemned  to  death." 

"By  the  hand  of  justice,  whether  human  or  divine; 
but  not  by  yours,  any  more  than  by  Florentin's  or 
mine,  although  we  know  better  than  any  one  that  he 
does  not  deserve  any  mercy." 

"And  you  see  I  foresaw  your  objections,  as  I  did  not 
tighten  his  cravat." 

"Happily." 

"Is  it  necessary  to  say  'happily*?'* 

[731 


CHAPTER  X 


SANIEL  MAKES  A  RESOLUTION 


[IS  evening  Phillis  was  obliged  to  be 
at  home  early,  but  she  cleared  off  the 
table,  and  put  everything  in  order  be- 
fore leaving. 

"You  can  breakfast  on  the  remains 
of  the  chicken,"  she  said,  as  she  put  it 
in  the  pantry. 
And  as  Saniel  accompanied  her  with 
a  candle  in  his  hand,  he  saw  that  she  had  thought  not 
only  of  his  breakfast  for  the  following  day,  but  for  many 
days,  besides  carrots  for  the  rabbits. 
"What  a  good  heart  you  have!"  he  said. 
"Because  I  think  of  the  rabbits?" 
"Because  of  your  tenderness  and  thoughtfulness." 
i    "I  wish  I  could  do  something  for  you!" 
'    As  soon  as  she  was  gone  he  seated  himself  at  his  desk 
and  began  to  work,  anxious  to  make  up  for  the  time 
that  he  had  given  to  sentiment.    The  fact  that  his  work 
might  not  be  of  use  to  him,  and  that  his  experiments 
might  be  rudely  interrupted  the  next  morning  or  in  a 
few  days,  was  not  a  sufficient  reason  for  being  idle.    He 
had  work  to  do,  and  he  worked  as  if  with  the  certitude 
that  he  would  pass  his  examinations,  and  that  his  ex- 
periments of  four  years  past  would  have  a  good  ending, 
without  interference  from  any  one. 

[74] 


CONSCIENCE 

This  was  his  strong  point,  this  power  to  work,  that 
was  never  disturbed  or  weakened  by  anything;  not  by 
pleasure  or  pain,  by  preoccupation  or  by  misery.  In 
the  street  he  could  think  of  Phillis,  be  he  hungry  or 
sleepy;  at  his  desk  he  had  no  thought  of  Phillis,  neither 
of  hunger  nor  of  sleep,  no  cares,  no  memories;  his  work 
occupied  him  entirely. 

It  was  his  strength,  and  also  his  pride,  the  only  su- 
periority of  which  he  boasted;  for  although  he  knew 
that  he  had  others,  he  never  spoke  of  them,  while  he 
often  said  to  his  comrades : 

"  I  work  when  I  will  and  as  much  as  I  wish.  My  will 
never  weakens  when  I  am  at  work." 

This  evening  he  worked  for  about  an  hour,  in  his 
usual  condition  of  mind;  neither  sheriffs,  nor  Jardine, 
nor  Caffi^  troubled  him.  But  having  to  draw  upon  his 
memory  for  certain  facts,  he  found  that  it  did  not  obey 
him  as  usual;  there  were  a  hesitation,  a  fogginess,  above 
all,  extraordinary  wanderings.  He  wrestled  with  it  and 
it  obeyed,  but  only  for  a  short  time,  and  soon  again  it 
betrayed  him  a  second  time,  then  a  third  and  fourth 
time. 

Decidedly  he  was  not  in  a  normal  state,  and  his  will 
obeyed  in  place  of  commanding. 

There  were  a  name  and  a  phrase  that  recurred  to  him 
mechanically  from  time  to  time.  The  name  was  Caffi^, 
and  the  phrase  was,  "Nothing  easier." 

Why  should  this  hypothesis  to  strangle  Caflfi^,  of 
which  he  had  lightly  spoken,  and  to  which  he  had  at- 
tached no  importance  at  the  moment  when  he  uttered 
it,  return  to  him  in  this  way  as  a  sort  of  obsession  ? 

[75] 


HECTOR  MALOT 

Was  it  not  strange  ? 

Never,  until  this  day,  had  he  had  an  idea  that  he 
could  strangle  a  man,  even  as  wicked  as  this  one,  and 
yet,  in  talking  of  it,  he  found  very  natural  and  legitimate 
reasons  for  the  murder  of  this  scamp. 

Had  not  Phillis  herself  condemned  him  ? 

To  tell  the  truth,  she  had  added  that  Providence  or 
justice  should  be  his  executor,  but  this  was  the  scruple 
of  a  simple  conscience,  formed  in  a  narrow  environ- 
ment, to  which  influence  he  would  not  submit. 

Had  he  these  scruples,  this  old  man  who  coldly,  and 
merely  for  the  interest  of  so  much  a  hundred  on  a  dot, 
advised  him  to  hasten  the  death  of  a  woman  by  drunk- 
enness, and  that  of  an  infant  in  any  way  he  pleased  ? 

When  he  reached  this  conclusion  he  stopped,  and 
asked  himself  whether  he  were  mad  to  pursue  this  idea; 
then  immediately,  to  get  rid  of  it,  he  set  to  work,  which 
absorbed  him  for  a  certain  time,  but  not  so  long  a  time 
as  at  first. 

Then,  finding  that  he  could  not  control  his  will,  he 
turned  his  thoughts  to  Caffi^. 

It  was  only  too  evident  that  if  he  had  carried  out  the 
idea  of  strangling  Cafh6,  all  the  difficulties  against 
which  he  had  struggled,  and  which  would  overwhehn 
him,  if  not  the  following  day,  at  least  in  a  few  days, 
would  have  disappeared  immediately. 

No  more  sherifiFs,  no  more  creditors.  What  a  deliv- 
erance! 

Repose,  the  possibility  of  passing  examinations  with  a 
calm  spirit  that  the  fever  of  material  troubles  would  not 
disturb — in  this  condition  he  felt  his  success  was  assured. 

[76] 


CONSCIENCE 

And  his  experiments!  He  would  run  no  danger  of 
seeing  them  rudely  interrupted.  His  preparations  were 
not  cast  out-of-doors;  his  precious  culture- tubes  were 
not  broken ;  his  vases,  his  balloons,  were  not  at  the  sec- 
ondhand dealer's.  He  continued  this  train  of  thought 
to  the  results  that  he  desired — ^for  him,  glory;  for  hu- 
manity, the  cure  of  one,  and  perhaps  two,  of  the  most 
terrible  maladies  with  which  it  was  afflicted. 
•    The  question  was  simple : 

On  one  side,  Caffie; 

On  the  other  side,  humanity  and  science; 

An  old  rascal  who  deserved  twenty  deaths,  and  who 
would,  anyhow,  die  naturally  in  a  short  time; 

And  humanity,  science,  which  would  profit  by  a  dis- 
covery of  which  he  would  be  the  author. 

He  saw  that  the  perspiration  stood  out  on  his  hands, 
and  he  felt  it  run  down  his  neck. 

Why  this  weakness?  From  horror  of  the  crime,  the 
possibility  of  which  he  admitted  ?  Or  from  fear  of  see- 
ing his  experiments  destroyed  ? 

He  would  reflect,  think  about  it,  be  upon  his  guard. 

He  had  told  Phillis  that  intelligent  men,  before  en- 
gaging in  an  action,  weigh  the  pro  and  con. 

Against  Caffie's  death  he  saw  nothing. 

For,  on  the  contrary,  everything  combined. 

If  he  had  had  PhilUs's  scruples,  or  Brigard's  beliefs, 
he  would  have  stopped. 

But,  not  having  them,  would  he  not  be  silly  to  draw 
back? 

Before  what  should  he  shrink  ?   Why  should  he  stop  ? 

Remorse?     But  he  was  convinced  that  intelligent 

[771 


HECTOR  MALOT 

men  had  no  remorse  when  they  came  to  a  decision  on 
good  grounds.  It  was  before  that  they  felt  remorse,  not 
after;  and  he  was  exactly  in  this  period  of  before. 

Fear  of  being  arrested  ?  But  intelligent  men  do  not 
let  themselves  be  arrested.  Those  who  are  lost  are 
brutes  who  go  straight  ahead,  or  the  half-intelligent, 
who  use  their  skill  and  cunning  to  combine  a  compli- 
cated or  romantic  act,  in  which  their  hand  is  plainly 
seen.  As  for  him,  he  was  a  man  of  science  and  pre- 
cision, and  he  would  not  compromise  himself  by  act  or 
sentiment;  there  would  be  nothing  to  fear  during  the 
action,  and  nothing  afterward.  Cafhe  strangled,  sus- 
picion would  not  fall  upon  a  doctor,  but  on  a  brute. 
When  doctors  wish  to  kill  any  one,  they  do  it  learnedly, 
by  poison  or  by  some  scientific  method.  Brutal  men 
kill  brutally;  murder,  called  the  assassin's  profession. 

A  few  minutes  before,  he  was  inundated  by  perspira- 
tion; this  word  froze  him. 

He  rose  nervously,  and  walked  up  and  down  the 
room  with  long,  unsteady  steps.  The  fire  had  long 
since  gone  out;  out-of-doors  the  street  noises  had 
ceased,  and  in  his  brain  resounded  the  one  word  that 
he  pronounced  in  a  low  tone,  "Assassin!" 

Was  he  the  man  to  be  influenced  and  stopped  by  a 
word  ?  Where  are  the  rich,  the  self-made  men,  the  suc- 
cessful men,  who  have  not  left  some  corpses  on  the  road 
behind  them?  Success  carries  them  safely,  and  they 
achieved  success  only  because  they  had  force. 

Certainly,  violence  was  not  recreation,  and  it  would 
be  more  agreeable  to  go  in  his  way  peacefully,  by  the 
power  of  intelligence  and  work,  than  to  make  a  way  by 

[78] 


CONSCIENCE 

blows;  but  he  had  not  chosen  this  road,  he  was  thrown 
into  it  by  circumstances,  by  fate,  and  whoever  wishes 
to  reach  the  end  cannot  choose  the  means.  If  one  must 
walk  in  the  mud,  what  matters  it,  when  one  knows  that 
one  will  not  get  muddy  ? 

If  Caffie  had  had  heirs,  poor  people  who  expected  to 
be  saved  from  misery  by  inheriting  his  fortune,  he 
would  have  been  touched  by  this  consideration,  un- 
doubtedly. Robber!  The  word  was  yet  more  vile  than 
that  of  assassin.  But  who  would  miss  the  few  bank- 
notes that  he  would  take  from  the  safe  ?  To  steal  is  to 
injure  some  one.  Whom  would  he  injure?  He  could 
see  no  one.  But  he  saw  distinctly  an  army  of  afflicted 
persons  whom  he  would  benefit. 

A  timid  ring  of  the  bell  made  him  start  violently,  and 
he  was  angry  with  himself  for  being  so  nervous,  he  who 
was  always  master  of  his  mind  as  of  his  body. 

He  opened  the  door,  and  a  man  dressed  like  a  la- 
borer bowed  humbly. 

"I  beg  your  pardon  for  disturbing  you,  sir." 

"What  do  you  want?" 

"I  called  on  account  of  my  wife,  if  you  will  be  so 
good  as  to  come  to  see  her." 

"What  is  the  matter  with  her?" 

"She  is  about  to  be  confined.  The  nurse  does  not 
know  what  to  do,  and  sent  me  for  a  doctor." 

"Did  the  nurse  tell  you  to  come  for  me?" 

"No,  sir;  she  sent  me  to  Doctor  Legrand." 

"Well?" 

"His  wife  told  me  he  could  not  get  up  on  account  of 
his  bronchitis.   And  the  chemist  gave  me  your  address." 

[79] 


HECTOR  MALOT 

"That  is  right" 

"I  must  tell  you,  sir,  I  am  an  honest  man,  but  we  are 
not  rich;  we  could  not  pay  you — immediately." 

"I  understand.    Wait  a  few  minutes." 

Saniel  took  his  instruments  and  followed  the  laborer, 
who,  on  the  way,  explained  his  wife's  condition. 

"Where  are  we  going?"  Saniel  asked,  interrupting 
these  explanations. 

"Rue  dc  la  Corderie." 

It  was  behind  the  Saint  Honore  market,  on  the  sixth 
floor,  under  the  roof,  in  a  room  that  was  perfectly  clean, 
in  spite  of  its  poverty.  As  soon  as  Saniel  entered  the 
nurse  came  forward,  and  in  a  few  words  told  him  the 
woman's  trouble. 

"Is  the  child  living?" 

"Yes." 

"That  is  well;  let  us  see." 

He  approached  the  bed  and  made  a  careful  examina- 
tion of  the  patient,  who  kept  repeating : 

"I  am  going  to  die.    Save  me,  doctor!" 

"Certainly,  we  shall  save  you,"  he  said,  very  softly. 
"I  promise  you." 

He  turned  away  from  the  bed  and  said  to  the  nurse: 

"  The  only  way  to  save  the  mother  is  to  kill  the  child." 

The  operation  was  long,  difficult,  and  painful,  and 
after  it  was  over  Saniel  remained  a  long  time  with  the 
patient.  When  he  reached  the  street  a  neighboring 
clock  struck  five,  and  the  market-place  had  already 
begun  to  show  signs  of  life. 

But  in  the  streets  was  still  the  silence  and  solitude  of 
night,  and  Saniel  began  to  reflect  on  what  had  occurred 

[80] 


CONSCIENCE 

during  the  last  few  hours.  Thus,  he  had  not  hesitated 
to  kill  this  child,  who  had,  perhaps,  sixty  or  seventy 
years  of  happy  life  before  it,  and  he  hesitated  at  the 
death  of  Cafii^,  to  whom  remained  only  a  miserable  ex- 
istence of  a  few  weeks.  The  interests  of  a  poor,  weak, 
stunted  woman  had  decided  him;  his,  those  of  hu- 
manity, left  him  perplexed,  irresolute,  weak,  and  cow- 
ardly.   What  a  contradiction ! 

He  walked  with  his  eyes  lowered,  and  at  this  moment, 
before  him  on  the  pavement,  he  saw  an  object  that  glit- 
tered in  the  glare  of  the  gas.  He  approached  it,  and 
found  that  it  was  a  butcher's  knife,  that  must  have  been 
lost,  either  on  going  to  the  market  or  the  slaughter- 
house. 

He  hesitated  a  moment  whether  he  should  pick  it  up 
or  leave  it  there;  then  looking  all  about  him,  and  see- 
ing no  one  in  the  deserted  street,  and  hearing  no  sound 
of  footsteps  in  the  silence,  he  bent  quickly  and  took  it. 

Caffi^'s  fate  was  decided. 


[8i] 


(SHAPTER  XI 

THE  INSTRUMENT  OF  DEATH 

^HEN,  after  two  hours'  sleep,  Saniel 
woke,  he  did  not  at  first  think  of  this 
knife;  he  was  tired  and  dull.  Me- 
chanically he  walked  about  his  room 
without  paying  attention  to  what  he 
was  doing,  as  if  he  were  in  a  state 
of  somnambulism,  and  it  astonished 
him,  because  he  never  felt  weariness 
of  mind  any  more  than  of  body,  no  matter  how  little 
he  had  slept,  nor  how  hard  he  had  worked. 

But  suddenly,  catching  a  glimpse  of  the  knife  that  he 
had  placed  on  the  mantel,  he  received  a  shock  that  an- 
nihilated his  torpor  and  his  fatigue.  It  dazzled  him  like 
a  flash  of  lightning. 

He  took  it,  and,  going  to  the  window,  he  examined  it 
by  the  pale  light  of  early  morning.  It  was  a  strong  in- 
strument that,  in  a  firm  hand,  would  be  a  terrible  arm; 
newly  sharpened,  it  had  the  edge  of  a  razor. 

Then  the  idea,  the  vision  that  had  come  to  him  two 
hours  before,  came  back  to  him,  clear  and  complete: 
at  nightfall,  that  is,  at  the  moment  when  the  concierge 
was  in  the  second  wing  of  the  building,  he  mounted  to 
Cafiie's  apartment  without  being  seen,  and  with  this 
knife  he  cut  his  throat.    It  was  as  simple  as  it  was  easy, 

[82] 


CONSCIENCE 

and  this  knife  left  beside  the  corpse,  and  the  nature  of 
the  wound,  would  lead  the  police  to  look  for  a  butcher, 
or  at  least  a  man  who  was  in  the  habit  of  using  a  knife 
of  this  kind. 

The  evening  before,  when  he  had  discussed  Cafl&e's 
death,  the  how  and  the  when  still  remained  vague  and 
uncertain.  But  now  the  day  and  the  means  were  defi- 
nitely settled:  it  should  be  with  this  knife,  and  this 
evening. 

This  shook  him  out  of  his  torpor  and  made  him 
shudder. 

He  was  angry  with  himself  for  this  weakness.  Did 
he  know  or  did  he  not  know  what  he  wished  ?  Was 
he  irresolute  or  cowardly  ? 

Then,  going  from  one  idea  to  another,  he  thought  of 
an  observation  that  he  had  made,  which  appeared  to 
prove  that  with  many  subjects  there  is  less  firmness  in 
the  morning  than  in  the  evening.  Was  this  the  result  of 
dualism  of  the  nervous  centres,  and  was  the  human  per- 
sonality double  like  the  brain  ?  Were  there  hours  when 
the  right  hemisphere  is  master  of  our  will,  and  were 
there  other  hours  when  the  left  is  master?  Did  one  of 
these  hemispheres  possess  what  the  other  lacked,  and  is 
it  according  to  the  activity  of  this  or  that  one,  that  one 
has  such  a  character  or  such  a  temperament?  This 
would  be  curious,  and  would  amount  to  saying  that,  a 
lamb  in  the  morning,  one  might  be  a  tiger  at  evening. 
With  him  it  was  a  lamb  that  woke  in  the  mommg  to  be 
devoured  by  a  tiger  during  the  day.  To  which  hemi- 
sphere belonged  the  one  and  the  other  of  these  per- 
sonalities? 

[83] 


HECTOR  MALOT 

He  was  angry  with  himself  for  yielding  to  these  re- 
flections; it  was  a  time,  truly,  to  study  this  psychological 
question !  It  was  of  Cafhe  that  he  should  think,  and  of 
the  plan  which  in  an  instant  flashed  through  his  mind 
in  the  street,  before  he  decided  to  pick  up  this  knife. 

Evidently  things  were  neither  so  simple  nor  so  easy 
as  they  at  first  appeared,  and  to  insure  the  success  of 
his  plan  a  combination  of  circumstances  was  neces- 
sary, which  might  be  difficult  to  bring  about. 

Would  not  the  concierge  see  him  pass?  Would  no 
one  go  up  or  down  the  stairs  ?  Would  Caffi^  be  alone  ? 
Would  he  open  the  door?  Might  not  some  one  ring 
after  he  had  entered  ? 

Here  was  a  series  of  questions  that  he  had  not  thought 
of  before,  but  which  now  presented  itself. 

He  must  examine  them,  weigh  them,  and  not  throw 
himself  giddily  into  an  adventure  that  presented  such 
risks. 

He  was  alone  all  day,  fortunately,  and,  as  in  the  state 
of  agitation  in  which  he  found  himself  he  could  not 
think  of  work,  he  gave  himself  up  to  this  examination. 
The  stakes  were  worth  the  trouble — his  honor  and  his 
life. 

As  soon  as  he  was  dressed  he  went  out,  and  walked 
straight  before  him  through  the  streets  that  were  already 
filled  with  people. 

It  was  only  when  he  had  left  the  heart  of  Paris  that 
he  could  reflect  as  he  wished,  without  being  disturbed 
each  instant  by  people  in  a  hurry,  for  whom  he  must 
make  way,  or  by  others  who,  reading  the  newspapers, 
did  not  look  before  them,  and  so  jostled  against  him. 

[84] 


CONSCIENCE 

Evidently  the  risks  were  more  serious  than  he  had 
imagined ;  and,  as  they  loomed  up  before  him,  he  asked 
himself  whether  he  should  go  on.  To  suppress  Caffie, 
yes;  to  give  himself  up,  no. 

"If  it  is  impossible " 

He  was  not  the  man  to  set  himself  wildly  against  the 
impossible :  he  should  have  had  a  dream,  a  bad  dream, 
and  that  would  be  all. 

■  He  stopped,  and,  after  a  moment  of  hesitation,  turn- 
ing on  his  heel,  he  retraced  his  steps.  Of  what  use  was 
it  to  go  farther  ?  He  had  no  need  to  reflect  nor  to  weigh 
the  pro  and  con;  he  must  give  up  this  plan ;  decidedly 
it  was  too  dangerous. 

He  had  gone  but  a  short  distance  when  he  asked  him- 
self whether  these  dangers  were  such  as  he  saw  them, 
and  whether  he  were  face  to  face  with  a  radically  de- 
monstrated impossibility. 

Without  doubt,  the  concierge  might  observe  him 
when  he  passed  her  lodge,  either  on  going  up-stairs  or 
coming  down;  and,  also,  she  might  not  observe  him. 
This,  in  reality,  depended  much  upon  himself,  and  on 
his  method  of  proceeding. 

Every  evening  this  lame  old  concierge  lighted  the  gas 
in  the  two  wings  of  the  building,  one  on  the  street  and 
one  on  the  court.  She  began  by  lighting  that  on  the 
street,  and,  with  the  difficulty  that  she  found  in  walk- 
ing, it  should  take  her  some  time  to  climb  the  five  sto- 
ries and  to  descend.  If  one  watched  from  the  street 
when,  at  dusk,  she  left  her  lodge  with  a  wax  taper  in 
her  hand,  and  mounted  the  stairs  behind  her,  at  a  little 
distance,  in  such  a  way  as  to  be  on  the  landing  of  the 

[85] 


HECTOR  MALOT 

first  story  when  she  should  reach  the  second,  there 
would  be  time,  the  deed  done,  to  regain  the  street  before 
she  returned  to  her  lodge,  after  having  lighted  the  gas 
on  the  two  staircases.  It  was  important  to  proceed 
methodically,  without  hurry,  but,  also,  without  loitering. 

Was  this  impossible  ? 

Here,  exactly,  was  the  delicate  point  which  he  must 
examine  with  composure,  without  permitting  himself  to 
be  influenced  by  any  other  consideration  than  that  which 
sprang  from  the  deed  itself. 

He  was  wrong,  then,  not  to  continue  his  route,  and 
it  was  better,  assuredly,  to  get  out  of  Paris.  In  the 
country,  in  the  fields  or  woods,  he  could  find  the  calm 
that  was  indispensable  to  his  over-excited  brain,  in 
which  ideas  clashed  like  the  waves  of  a  disturbed  sea. 

He  was  at  this  moment  in  the  middle  of  the  Fau- 
bourg Saint  Honore;  he  followed  a  street  that  would 
bring  him  to  the  Champs  Elys6es,  a  desert  at  this  early 
hour. 

It  took  him  some  time  to  examine  all  the  hypotheses 
that  might  present  themselves,  and  he  reached  the  con- 
clusion that  what  had  appeared  impossible  to  him  was 
not  so.  If  he  preserved  his  calmness,  and  did  not  lose 
perception  of  the  passing  time,  he  could  very  well  escape 
the  concierge,  which  was  the  main  point. 

To  tell  the  truth,  the  danger  of  the  concierge  removed, 
all  was  not  easy.  There  was  the  possibility  of  meeting 
one  of  the  lodgers  on  the  stairs;  there  was  a  chance  of 
not  finding  Caffie  at  home,  or,  at  least,  not  alone;  or 
the  bell  might  ring  at  the  decisive  moment.  But,  as 
everything  depended  upon  chance,  these  circumstances 

[86] 


CONSCIENCE 

could  not  be  decided  beforehand.  It  was  a  risk.  If 
one  of  them  happened,  he  would  wait  until  the  next 
day;  it  would  be  one  more  day  of  agitation  to  live 
through. 

But  one  question  that  should  be  decided  in  advance, 
because,  surely,  it  presented  serious  dangers,  was  how 
he  should  justify  the  coming  into  his  hands  of  a  sum  of 
money  which,  providentially  and  in  the  nick  of  time, 
relieved  him  from  the  embarrassments  against  which 
he  struggled. 

He  had  reached  the  Bois  de  Boulogne  and  still  con- 
tinued his  walk.  In  passing  a  fountain  the  rippling 
of  the  water  attracted  his  attention,  and  he  stopped. 
Although  the  weather  was  damp  and  cold  under  the  in- 
fluence of  a  strong  west  wind  charged  with  rain,  his 
tongue  was  dry;  he  drank  two  goblets  of  water,  and 
then  pursued  his  way,  indifferent  where  he  went. 

Then  he  built  up  an  arrangement  which  appeared  in- 
genious to  him,  when  it  occurred  to  him  to  remember 
that  he  had  gone  to  Caffi6  to  borrow  three  thousand 
francs.  Why  would  he  not  lend  it  to  him,  if  not  the 
first  day,  at  least  the  second  ?  With  this  loan  he  paid 
his  debts,  if  he  were  questioned  on  this  point.  To 
prove  this  loan  he  need  only  to  sign  a  receipt  which  he 
could  place  in  the  safe,  and  which  would  be  found 
there.  Would  not  the  first  thought  of  those  who  had 
signed  a  paper  of  this  kind  be  to  take  it  when  an  occa- 
sion presented  itself  ?  As  he  would  not  seize  this  occa- 
sion to  carry  off  his  note,  it  would  be  the  proof  that  he 
had  not  opened  the  safe. 

Among  other  advantages,  this  arrangement  did  away 

[87) 


HECTOR  MALOT 

with  robbery;  it  was  only  a  loan.  Later  he  would  re- 
turn these  three  thousand  francs  to  Caffie's  heirs.  So 
much  the  worse  for  him  if  it  were  a  forced  loan. 

On  returning  to  Paris  he  would  buy  a  sheet  of 
stamped  paper,  and  as  he  had  asked  the  price  the  pre- 
vious evening,  he  knew  that  he  could  afford  the  ex- 
pense. 

When  he  reached  Saint  Cloud  he  entered  a  tavern 
and  ordered  some  bread  and  cheese  and  wine.  But  if 
he  drank  little,  he  ate  less,  his  parched  throat  refusing 
to  swallow  bread. 

He  took  up  his  march  in  the  clayey  streets  on  the 
slope  of  Mont  Valerian,  but  he  was  insensible  to  the 
unpleasantness  of  slipping  on  the  soft  soil,  and  walked 
hither  and  thither,  his  only  care  being  not  to  get  too  far 
away  from  the  Seine,  so  that  he  might  enter  Paris  be- 
fore night. 

He  was  delighted  since  he  had  made  up  his  mind  to 
make  out  and  sign  a  receipt  for  the  money.  But  on 
giving  it  further  consideration,  he  perceived  that  it  was 
not  so  ingenious  as  he  had  at  first  supposed.  Do  not 
the  dealers  of  stamped  paper  often  number  their  paper  ? 
With  this  number  it  would  be  easy  to  find  the  dealer 
and  him  who  had  bought  it.  And  then,  was  it  not  likely 
that  a  scrupulous  business  man  like  Caffie  would  keep 
a  record  of  the  loans  he  made,  and  would  not  the  ab- 
sence of  this  one  and  the  note  be  sufficient  to  awaken 
suspicion  and  to  direct  it  to  him  ? 

Decidedly,  he  only  escaped  one  danger  to  fall  into 
another. 

For  a  moment  he  was  discouraged,  but  it  did  not  go 

[88] 


CONSCIENCE 

so  far  as  weakness.  His  error  had  been  in  imagining 
that  the  execution  of  the  idea  that  had  come  to  him 
while  picking  up  the  knife  was  as  plain  as  it  was  easy. 
But  complicated  and  perilous  as  it  was,  it  was  not  im- 
possible. 

The  question  which  finally  stood  before  him  was,  to 
know  whether  he  possessed  the  force  needed  to  cope  with 
these  dangers,  and  on  this  ground  hesitation  was  not 
possible;  to  wish  to  foresee  everything  was  folly;  that 
which  he  would  not  have  expected,  would  come  to  pass. 

He  returned  toward  Paris,  and  by  the  Pont  de  Su- 
resnes  reentered  the  Bois  de  Boulogne.  As  it  was  not 
yet  three  o'clock,  he  had  plenty  of  time  to  reach  the  Rue 
Sainte-Anne  before  night;  but,  on  the  way,  a  heavy 
shower  forced  him  to  take  shelter,  and  he  watched  the 
falling  rain,  asking  himself  if  this  accident,  which  he 
had  not  foreseen,  would  not  upset  his  plan.  A  man 
who  had  received  the  force  of  this  shower  could  not  ap- 
pear in  the  street  before  Caffie's  door  without  attracting 
the  attention  of  the  passers-by,  and  it  was  important  for 
him  that  he  should  not  attract  the  attention  of  any  one. 

At  length  the  rain  ceased,  and  at  twenty  minutes  of 
five  he  reached  his  home.  There  remained  fifteen  or 
twenty  minutes  of  daylight,  which  was  more  than  he 
needed. 

He  stuck  the  point  of  the  knife  in  a  cork,  and,  after 
having  placed  it  between  the  folded  leaves  of  a  news- 
paper, in  the  inside  left-hand  pocket  of  his  overcoat,  he 
went  out. 


[89] 


eHAPTER  XII 


THE  CRUCIAL  MOMENT 


;HEN  he  reached  Caffie's  door  the  night 
had  scarcely  fallen,  and  the  streets 
were  not  yet  lighted. 

The  better  and  the  surest  plan  for 
him  had  been  to  wait  in  the  porte- 
cochhre  across  the  street ;  from  there  he 
could  watch  the  concierge,  who  would 
not  be  able  to  go  out  without  being 
seen  by  him.  But  though  the  passers  were  few  at  this 
moment,  they  might  have  observed  him.  Next  to  this 
porte-cochere  was  a  small  cafe,  whose  brilliant  lights 
would  cause  him  to  be  seen  quite  plainly.  He,  there- 
fore, walked  on,  but  soon  returned. 

All  irresolution,  all  hesitation,  had  disappeared,  and 
the  only  point  on  which  he  still  questioned  himself  bore 
upon  the  state  in  which  he  found  himself  at  this  mo- 
ment. He  felt  himself  firm,  and  his  pulse,  he  was  cer- 
tain, beat  regularly.  He  was  as  he  had  imagined  he 
would  be;  experience  confirmed  his  foresight;  his  hand 
would  tremble  no  more  than  his  will. 

As  he  passed  before  the  house  he  saw  the  concierge 
come  slowly  out  of  her  lodge  and  close  her  door  care- 
fully, putting  the  key  in  her  pocket.  In  her  left  hand  she 
held  something  white  that  he  could  not  see  distinctly  in 

[90] 


CONSCIENCE 

the  twilight,  but  it  was  probably  the  wax-taper  which, 
doubtless,  she  had  not  lighted  for  fear  the  wind  would 
blow  it  out. 

This  was  a  favorable  circumstance,  that  gave  him 
one  or  two  minutes  more  than  he  had  counted  on,  for 
she  would  be  obliged  to  strike  a  match  on  the  stairs  to 
light  her  taper;  and,  in  the  execution  of  his  plan,  two 
minutes,  a  single  minute  even,  might  be  of  great  im- 
portance. 

With  dragging  steps  and  bent  back  she  disappeared 
through  the  vestibule  of  the  stairway.  Then  Saniel 
continued  his  walk  like  an  ordinary  passer-by  until  she 
had  time  to  reach  the  first  story;  then,  turning,  he  re- 
turned to  the  porte-cochere  and  entered  quietly.  By  the 
gaslight  in  the  vestibule  he  saw  by  his  watch,  which  he 
held  in  his  hand,  that  it  was  fourteen  minutes  after  five 
o'clock.  Then,  if  his  calculation  was  right,  at  twenty- 
four  or  twenty-five  minutes  after  five  he  must  pass  be- 
fore the  lodge,  which  should  still  be  empty  at  that  mo- 
ment. 

On  the  staircase  above  him  he  heard  the  heavy  step 
of  the  concierge;  she  had  lighted  the  gas  on  the  first 
story,  and  continued  on  her  way  slowly.  With  rapid 
but  light  steps  he  mounted  behind  her,  and,  on  reach- 
ing Cafl56's  door,  he  rang  the  bell,  taking  care  not  to 
ring  too  loudly  or  too  timidly;  then  he  knocked  three 
times,  as  Caffie  had  instructed  him. 

Was  Caffi^  alone  ? 

Up  to  this  time  all  had  gone  as  he  wished ;  no  one  in 
the  vestibule,  no  one  on  the  stairs;  fate  was  in  his  favor; 
would  it  accompany  him  to  the  end  ? 

[91] 


HECTOR  MALOT 

While  he  waited  at  the  door,  asking  himself  this  ques- 
tion, an  idea  flashed  into  his  mind.  He  would  make  a 
last  attempt.  If  Cafhe  consented  to  make  the  loan  he 
would  save  himself;  if  he  refused,  he  condemned  him- 
self. 

After  several  seconds,  that  appeared  like  hours,  his 
listening  ears  perceived  a  sound  which  announced  that 
Caffie  was  at  home.  A  scratching  of  wood  on  the  tiled 
floor  denoted  that  a  chair  had  been  pushed  aside; 
heavy,  dragging  steps  approached,  then  the  bolt 
creaked,  and  the  door  was  opened  cautiously. 

"Ah!    It  is  you,  my  dear  sir!"  Cafhe  said,  in  surprise. 

Saniel  entered  briskly  and  closed  the  door  himself, 
pressing  it  firmly. 

"Is  there  anything  new?"  Caffie  asked,  as  he  led  the 
way  to  his  office. 

"No,"  Saniel  replied. 

"Well,  then?"  Caffie  asked,  as  he  seated  himself  in 
an  armchair  before  his  desk,  on  which  stood  a  lighted 
lamp.  "I  suppose  you  have  come  to  hear  more  about 
my  young  friend.    This  hurry  augurs  well." 

"No,  it  is  not  of  the  young  person  that  I  wish  to  talk 
to  you." 

"I  am  sorry." 

On  seating  himself  opposite  to  Caffie,  Saniel  had 
taken  out  his  watch.  Two  minutes  had  passed  since  he 
left  the  vestibule;  he  must  hurry.  In  order  to  keep 
himself  informed  of  the  passing  of  time,  he  retained  his 
watch  in  his  hand. 

"Are  you  in  a  hurry?" 

"Yes;  I  will  come  immediately  to  business.    It  con- 

[92] 


CONSCIENCE 

cems  myself,  my  position,  and  I  make  a  last  appeal  to 
you.  Let  us  be  honest  with  each  other.  Undoubtedly 
you  think  that,  pushed  by  my  distress,  and  seeing  that 
I  shall  be  lost  forever,  I  shall  decide  to  accept  this  mar- 
riage to  save  myself." 

"Can  you  suppose  such  a  thing,  my  dear  sir?"  Caffi^ 
cried. 

But  Saniel  stopped  him. 

"The  calculation  is  too  natural  for  you  not  to  have 
made  it.  Well,  I  must  tell  you  that  it  is  false.  Never 
will  I  lend  myself  to  such  a  bargain.  Renounce  your 
project,  and  let  us  discuss  my  demand.  I  am  in  abso- 
lute want  of  three  thousand  francs,  and  I  will  pay  the 
interest  that  you  fix  upon." 

"I  have  not  found  a  money-lender,  my  dear  sir.  I 
have  taken  a  great  deal  of  trouble,  I  assure  you,  but  I 
did  not  succeed." 

"Make  an  effort  yourself." 

"Me?    My  dear  sir!" 

"I  address  myself  to  you." 

"But  I  have  no  ready  money." 

"It  is  a  desperate  appeal  that  I  make.  I  understand 
that  your  long  experience  in  business  makes  you  insen- 
sible to  the  misery  that  you  see  every  day " 

"Insensible!  Say  that  it  breaks  my  heart,  my  dear 
sir." 

"But  will  you  not  permit  yourself  to  be  touched  by 
the  misery  of  a  man  who  is  young,  intelligent,  coura- 
geous, who  will  drown  if  a  hand  is  not  held  out  to  help 
him  ?  For  you,  the  assistance  that  I  ask  so  earnestly  is 
nothing " 

[93] 


HECTOR  MALOT 

"Three  thousand  francs!  Nothing!  Bless  me!  How 
you  talk!" 

"For  me,  if  you  refuse  me,  it  is  death." 

Saniel  began  to  speak  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  hands 
of  his  watch,  but  presently,  carried  away  by  the  fever  of 
the  situation,  he  raised  them  to  look  at  Caffi6,  and  to  see 
the  effect  that  he  produced  on  him.  In  this  movement 
he  made  a  discovery  that  destroyed  all  his  calculations. 

Caffie's  of&ce  was  a  small  room  with  a  high  window 
looking  into  the  court;  never  having  been  in  this  office 
except  in  the  evening,  he  had  not  observed  that  this 
window  had  neither  shutters  nor  curtains  of  muslin  or 
of  heavier  stuff;  there  was  nothing  but  the  glass.  To 
tell  the  truth,  two  heavy  curtains  of  woollen  damask 
hung  on  either  side  of  the  window,  but  they  were  not 
drawn.  Talking  to  Caffie,  who  was  placed  between 
him  and  this  window,  Saniel  suddenly  perceived  that  on 
the  other  side  of  the  court,  in  the  second  wing  of  the 
building,  on  the  second  story,  were  two  lighted  windows 
directly  opposite  to  the  office,  and  that  from  there  any 
one  could  see  everything  that  occurred  in  the  office. 

How  should  he  execute  his  plan  under  the  eyes  of 
these  people  whom  he  saw  coming  and  going  in  this 
room?  He  would  be  lost.  In  any  case,  it  was  risking 
an  adventure  so  hazardous  that  he  would  be  a  fool  to 
attempt  it,  and  he  was  not  that;  never  had  he  felt  him- 
self so  much  the  master  of  his  mind  and  nerves. 

Also,  it  was  not  only  to  save  Caffie's  life  that  he  ar- 
gued, it  was  to  save  himself  in  grasping  this  loan. 

''I  can  only,  to  my  great  regret,  repeat  to  you  what  I 
have  already  said>  my  dear  sir.   I  have  no  ready  money." 

[94] 


CONSCIENCE 

And  he  held  his  jaw,  groaning,  as  if  this  refusal 
aroused  his  toothache. 

Saniel  rose;  evidently  there  was  nothing  for  him  to 
do  but  to  go.  It  was  finished,  and  instead  of  being  in 
despair  he  felt  it  as  a  relief. 

But,  as  he  was  about  to  leave  the  room,  an  idea 
flashed  through  his  mind. 

He  looked  at  his  watch,  which  he  had  not  consulted 
for  some  time;  it  was  twenty  minutes  after  five;  there 
yet  remained  four  minutes,  five  at  the  most. 

"Why  do  you  not  draw  these  curtains?"  he  said. 
"I  am  sure  your  sufferings  are  partly  caused  by  the 
wind  that  comes  in  this  window." 

"Do  you  think  so?" 

"I  am  sure  of  it;  you  should  be  warm  about  the 
head,  and  avoid  currents  of  air." 

Passing  behind  Caffi6,  he  went  to  the  window  to 
draw  the  curtains,  but  the  cords  would  not  move. 

"It  is  years  since  they  were  drawn,"  Cafl&^  said. 
**  Doubtless  the  cords  are  entangled.  I  will  bring  the 
Ught." 

And,  taking  the  lamp,  he  went  to  the  window,  hold- 
ing it  high  in  order  to  throw  light  on  the  cords. 

With  a  turn  of  the  hand  Saniel  disentangled  the 
cords,  and  the  curtains  slid  on  the  rods,  almost  covering 
the  window. 

"  It  is  true  a  good  deal  of  air  did  come  in  the  window," 
Caffi6  said.    "  I  thank  you,  my  dear  doctor." 

All  this  was  done  with  a  feverish  rapidity  that  aston- 
ished Caffi^. 

"Decidedly,  you  are  in  a  hurry,"  he  said. 

[951 


HECTOR  MALOT 

''Yes,  in  a  great  hurry." 

He  looked  at  his  watch. 

"However,  I  have  still  time  to  give  you  a  consulta- 
tion if  you  desire  it." 

"I  would  not  trouble  you " 

"You  do  not  trouble  me." 

"But " 

"Sit  down  in  your  armchair,  and  show  me  your 
mouth." 

Wliile  Caffie  seated  himself,  Saniel  continued  in  a 
vibrating  voice : 

"You  see  I  give  good  for  evil." 

"How  is  that,  my  dear  sir?" 

"You  refuse  me  a  ser\dcc  that  would  save  me,  and  1 
give  you  a  consultation.    It  is  true,  it  is  the  last." 

"And  why  the  last,  my  dear  sir?" 

"Because  death  is  between  us." 

"Death!" 

"Do  you  not  see  it?" 

"No." 

"I  see  it." 

"You  must  not  think  of  such  a  thing,  my  dear  sir. 
One  does  not  die  because  one  cannot  pay  three  thou- 
sand francs." 

The  chair  in  which  Caffie  seated  himself  was  an  old 
Voltaire,  with  an  inclined  back,  and  he  half  reclined  in 
it.  As  his  shirt-collar  was  too  large  for  him  since  he  had 
become  thin,  and  his  narrow  cravat  was  scarcely  tied, 
he  displayed  as  much  throat  as  jaw. 

Saniel,  behind  the  chair,  had  taken  the  knife  in  his 
right  hand,  while  he  pressed  the  left  heavily  on  Caffie's 

[96] 


CONSCIENCE 

forehead,  and  with  a  powerful  stroke,  as  quick  as  light- 
ning, he  cut  the  larynx  under  the  glottis,  as  well  as  the 
two  carotid  arteries,  with  the  jugular  veins.  From  this 
terrible  wound  sprang  a  large  jet  of  blood,  which,  cross- 
ing the  room,  struck  against  the  door.  Cut  clean,  not  a 
cry  could  be  formed  in  the  windpipe,  and  in  his  arm- 
chair Caffie  shook  with  convulsions  from  head  to  foot. 

Leaving  his  position  behind  the  chair,  Saniel,  who 
had  thrown  the  knife  on  the  floor,  looked  at  his  watch 
and  counted  the  ticking  of  the  second-hand  in  a  low 
voice. 

"One,  two,  three " 

At  the  end  of  ninety  seconds  the  convulsions  ceased. 

It  was  twenty-three  minutes  after  five.  Now  it  was 
important  that  he  should  hurry  and  not  lose  a  second. 

The  blood,  after  having  gushed  out,  had  run  down 
the  body  and  wet  the  vest  pocket  in  which  was  the  key 
of  the  safe.  But  blood  does  not  produce  the  same  effect 
upon  a  doctor  as  upon  those  who  are  not  accustomed  to 
its  sight  and  odor,  and  to  its  touch.  In  spite  of  the  luke- 
warm sea  in  which  it  lay,  Saniel  took  the  key,  and  after 
wiping  his  hand  on  one  of  the  tails  of  Caffi^'s  coat,  he 
placed  it  in  the  lock. 

Would  it  turn  freely,  or  was  it  closed  with  a  combi- 
nation ?  The  question  was  poignant.  The  key  turned 
and  the  door  opened.  On  a  shelf  and  in  a  wooden  bowl 
were  packages  of  bank-notes  and  rolls  of  gold  that 
he  had  seen  the  evening  when  the  bank-clerk  came. 
Roughly,  without  counting,  he  thrust  them  into  his 
pocket,  and  without  closing  the  safe,  he  ran  to  the  front 
door,  taking  care  not  to  step  in  the  streams  of  blood, 
7  [97] 


HECTOR  MALOT 

which,  on  the  sloping  tiled  floor,  ran  toward  this  door. 
The  time  was  short. 

And  now  was  the  greatest  danger,  that  of  meeting 
some  one  behind  this  door,  or  on  the  stairs.  He  lis- 
tened, and  heard  no  noise.  He  went  out,  and  no  one 
was  to  be  seen.  Without  running,  but  hastily,  he  de- 
scended the  stairs.  Should  he  look  in  the  lodge,  or 
should  he  turn  his  head  away?  He  looked,  but  the 
concierge  was  not  there. 

A  second  later  he  was  in  the  street  mingling  with  the 
passers-by,  and  he  drew  a  long  breath. 


[98] 


CHAPTER  Xm 

DISTRACTION 

HERE  was  no  longer  any  need  to  be 
cautious,  to  listen,  to  stretch  his  nerves, 
to  restrain  his  heart;  he  could  walk 
freely  and  reflect. 

His  first  thought  was  to  endeavor  to 
explain  to  himself  how  he  felt,  and  he 
found  that  it  was  an  immense  relief; 
something,  doubtless,  analogous  to  the 
returning  to  life  after  being  in  a  state  of  asphyxiation. 
Physically,  he  was  calm;  morally,  he  felt  no  remorse. 
He  was  right,  therefore,  in  his  theory  when  he  told 
Phillis  that  in  the  intelligent  man  remorse  precedes  the 
action,  instead  of  following  it. 

But  where  he  was  mistaken  was  in  imagining  that 
during  the  act  he  should  maintain  his  coolness  and 
force,  which,  in  reality,  had  failed  him  completely. 

Going  from  one  idea  to  another,  tossed  by  irresolu- 
tion, he  was  by  no  means  the  strong  man  that  he  had 
believed  himself:  one  to  go  to  the  end  unmoved,  ready 
to  face  every  attack;  master  of  his  nerves  as  of  his  will, 
in  full  possession  of  all  his  powers.  On  the  contrary, 
he  had  been  the  plaything  of  agitation  and  weakness. 
If  a  serious  danger  had  risen  before  him,  he  would  not 
have  known  on  which  side  to  attack  it ;  fear  would  have 
paralyzed  him,  and  he  would  have  been  lost. 

[99] 


HECTOR  MALOT 

To  tell  the  truth,  his  hand  had  been  firm,  but  his 
head  had  been  bewildered. 

There  was  something  humiliating  in  this,  he  was 
obliged  to  acknowledge;  and,  what  was  more  serious,  it 
was  alarming.  Because,  although  everything  had  gone 
as  he  wished,  up  to  the  present  time,  all  was  not  fin- 
ished, nor  even  begun. 

If  the  investigations  of  the  law  should  reach  him, 
how  should  he  defend  himself  ? 

He  felt  sure  that  he  had  not  been  seen  in  Caffi^'s  house 
at  the  moment  when  the  crime  was  committed;  but 
does  one  ever  know  whether  one  has  been  seen  or  not  ? 

And  there  was  the  production  of  money  that  he  should 
use  to  pay  his  debts,  which  might  become  an  accusation 
against  which  it  would  be  difficult  to  defend  himself. 
In  any  case,  he  must  be  ready  to  explain  his  position. 
And  what  might  complicate  the  matter  was,  that  Caffie, 
a  careful  man,  had  probably  taken  care  to  write  the 
numbers  of  his  bank-notes  in  a  book,  which  would  be 
found. 

On  leaving  the  Rue  Sainte-Anne  he  took  the  Rue 
Neuve-des-Petits-Champs  to  his  home,  to  leave  the 
bank-notes  and  to  wash  off  the  stains  of  blood  that 
might  have  splashed  on  him  and  his  hands,  particularly 
the  right  one,  which  was  still  red.  But  suddenly  it  oc- 
curred to  him  that  he  might  be  followed,  and  it  would 
be  folly  to  show  where  he  lived.  He  hastened  his  steps, 
in  order  to  make  any  one  who  might  be  following  him 
run,  and  took  the  streets  that  were  not  well  lighted, 
those  where  there  was  little  chance  of  any  one  seeing  the 
stains,  if  they  were  visible,  on  his  clothing  or  boots.    He 

[lOO] 


CONSCIENCE 

walked  in  this  way  for  nearly  half  an  hour,  turning  and 
returning  on  his  track,  and  after  having  crossed  the 
Place  Vend6me  twice,  where  he  was  able  to  look  be- 
hind him,  he  decided  to  go  home,  not  knowing  whether 
he  should  be  satisfied  to  have  bewildered  all  quest,  or 
whether  he  should  not  be  furious  to  have  yielded  to  a 
sort  of  panic. 

As  he  passed  by  the  lodge  without  stopping,  his 
concierge  called  him,  and,  running  out,  gave  him  a  let- 
ter with  unusual  eagerness.  Saniel,  who  wished  to  es- 
cape observation,  took  it  hastily,  and  stuffed  it  into  his 
pocket. 

"It  is  an  important  letter,"  the  concierge  said.  "The 
servant  who  brought  it  told  me  that  it  contained  money." 

It  needed  this  recommendation  at  such  a  moment,  or 
Saniel  would  not  have  opened  it,  which  he  did  as  soon 
as  he  entered  his  rooms. 

"I  do  not  wish,  my  dear  Doctor,  to  leave  Paris  for  Monaco, 
where  I  go  to  pass  two  or  three  months,  without  sending  you  our 
thanks. 

"Yours  very  gratefully, 

"C.   DUPHOT." 

These  thanks  were  represented  by  two  bills  of  one 
hundred  francs,  a  payment  more  than  sufficient  for  the 
care  that  Saniel  had  given  some  months  before  to  the 
mistress  of  this  old  comrade.  Of  what  use  now  were 
these  two  hundred  francs,  which  a  few  days  sooner 
would  have  been  so  much  to  him?  He  threw  them  on 
his  desk;  and  then,  after  having  lighted  two  candles, 
he  inspected  his  clothing. 

[lOl] 


HECTOR  MALOT 

The  precaution  that  he  had  taken  to  place  himself 
behind  the  chair  was  wise.  The  blood,  in  squirting  in 
front  and  on  each  side,  had  not  reached  him;  only  the 
hand  that  held  the  knife  and  the  shirt-sleeve  were 
splashed,  but  this  was  of  no  consequence.  A  doctor  has 
the  right  to  have  some  blood  on  his  sleeves,  and  this 
shirt  went  to  join  the  one  he  had  worn  the  previous 
night  when  attending  the  sick  woman. 

Free  from  this  care,  he  still  had  the  money  in  his 
pockets.  He  emptied  them  on  his  desk  and  counted  all: 
five  rouleaux  of  gold,  of  a  thousand  francs,  and  three 
packages  of  ten  thousand  francs  each,  of  bank-notes. 

How  should  he  get  rid  of  this  sum  all  at  once,  and, 
later,  how  should  he  justify  its  production  when  the 
moment  came,  if  it  came  ? 

The  question  was  complex,  and,  unfortunately  for 
him,  he  was  hardly  in  a  state  to  consider  it  calmly. 

For  the  gold,  he  had  only  to  burn  the  papers  in 
which  it  was  rolled.  Louis  have  neither  numbers  nor 
particular  marks,  but  bills  have.  Where  should  he  con- 
ceal them  while  waiting  to  learn  through  the  newspa- 
pers if  Cafiie  had  or  had  not  made  a  note  of  these  num- 
bers? 

While  burning  these  papers  on  which  Caffie  had 
written  "i,ooo  francs,"  he  tried  to  think  of  a  place  of 
concealment. 

As  he  threw  a  glance  around  him,  asking  from  things 
the  inspiration  that  his  brain  did  not  furnish,  he  caught 
sight  of  the  letter  he  had  just  received,  and  it  suggested 
an  idea.  Duphot  was  at  Monaco  to  play.  Why  should 
he  not  go  also,  and  play  ? 

[102] 


CONSCIENCE 

Having  neither  relatives  nor  friends  from  whom  he 
could  procure  a  certain  sum,  his  only  resource  was  to 
make  it  at  play;  and  in  his  desperate  position,  known 
to  every  one,  nothing  was  more  natural  than  this  ex- 
periment. He  had  received  two  hundred  francs,  which 
would  not  save  him  from  his  creditors.  He  would  risk 
them  at  roulette  at  Monaco.  Whether  he  lost  or  won 
was  of  little  consequence.  He  would  have  played; 
that  would  be  sufficient.  He  would  be  seen  playing. 
Who  would  know  whether  he  lost  or  won?  From 
Monaco  he  would  pay  Jardine  by  telegraph,  out  of 
the  five  thousand  louis,  which  would  be  more  than 
sufiicient  for  that;  and,  when  he  returned  to  Paris,  he 
would  free  himself  from  his  other  creditors  with  what 
remained. 

The  money  afiFair  decided — and  it  seemed  to  him 
cleverly  settled — did  not  include  the  bank-notes,  which, 
spread  out  before  his  eyes,  disturbed  him.  What 
should  he  do  with  them  ?  One  moment  he  thought  of 
burning  them,  but  reflection  held  him  back.  Would  it 
not  be  folly  to  destroy  this  fortune  ?  In  any  case,  would 
it  not  be  the  work  of  a  narrow  mind,  of  one  not  fertile 
in  resources? 

In  trying  to  think  of  some  safe  place  to  hide  the  bank- 
notes, one  thought  continually  absorbed  him:  What 
was  happening  in  the  Rue  Sainte-Anne  ?  Had  any  one 
discovered  the  dead  man  ? 

He  should  be  there  to  observe  events,  instead  of  tim- 
idly shutting  himself  up  in  his  office. 

For  several  minutes  he  tried  to  resist  this  thought, 
but  it  was  stronger  than  his  will  or  his  reason.     So 

[103] 


HECTOR  MALOT 

much  was  he  under  its  power  that  he  could  do 
nothing. 

WilHng  or  unwilling,  foolish  or  not,  he  must  go  to  the 
Rue  Sainte-Anne. 

He  washed  his  hands,  changed  his  shirt,  and  throw- 
ing the  notes  and  gold  into  a  drawer,  he  went  out. 

He  knew  very  well  that  there  was  a  certain  danger  in 
leaving  these  proofs  of  the  crime,  which,  found  in  an 
official  search,  would  overwhelm  hirn,  without  his  be- 
ing able  to  defend  himself.  But  he  thought  that  an  im- 
mediate search  was  unlikely  to  occur,  and  if  he  could 
not  make  a  probable  story,  it  would  be  better  for  him 
not  to  reason  about  it.  It  was  a  risk  that  he  ran,  but 
how  much  he  had  on  his  side! 

He  hastened  along  the  Rue  Neuve-des-Petits- 
Champs,  but  on  approaching  the  Rue  Sainte-Anne  he 
slackened  his  steps,  looking  about  him  and  listening. 
Nothing  unusual  struck  him.  Even  when  he  turned  into 
the  Rue  Sainte-Anne  he  found  it  bore  its  ordinary  as- 
pect. A  few  passers-by,  not  curious;  no  groups  on  the 
sidewalk;  no  shopkeepers  at  their  doors.  Nothing  was 
different  from  usual. 

Apparently,  nothing  had  yet  been  discovered.  Then 
he  stopped,  judging  it  useless  to  go  farther.  Already 
he  had  passed  too  much  time  before  Caffie's  door,  and 
when  one  was  of  his  build,  above  the  medium  height, 
with  a  physiognomy  and  appearance  unlike  others,  one 
should  avoid  attracting  attention. 

For  several  minutes  he  walked  up  and  down  slowly, 
from  the  Rue  Neuve-des-Petits-Champs  to  the  Rue  du 
Hasard;   from  there  he  could  see  Caffie's  house,  and 

[104] 


CONSCIENCE 

yet  be  so  far  away  that  no  one  would  suspect  him  of 
watching  it. 

But  this  promenade,  which  was  quite  natural,  and 
which  he  would  have  continued  for  an  hour  in  ordinary 
circumstances,  without  thinking  anything  about  it,  soon 
alarmed  him.  It  seemed  as  if  people  looked  at  him, 
and  two  persons  stopping  to  talk  made  him  wonder  if 
they  spoke  of  him.  Why  did  they  not  continue  their 
way?  Why,  from  time  to  time,  did  they  turn  their 
heads  toward  him  ? 

He  left  the  place,  and  neither  wishing  nor  being  able 
to  decide  to  go  far  away  from  "the  house,"  he  con- 
cluded to  go  to  a  small  caje  which  was  close  by. 

On  entering,  he  seated  himself  at  a  table  near  the 
door  that  appeared  to  be  an  excellent  observatory,  from 
where  he  could  easily  survey  the  street.  A  waiter  asked 
him  what  he  would  have,  and  he  ordered  coffee. 

He  gave  this  order  mechanically,  without  thinking 
what  he  was  sajnng,  and  not  till  afterward  did  he  wonder 
if  it  were  natural  to  take  coffee  at  this  hour.  The  men 
seated  at  the  other  tables  drank  appetizers  or  beer.  Had 
he  not  made  a  blunder? 

But  everything  seemed  a  blunder,  as  everything 
seemed  dangerous.  Could  he  not  regain  his  compos- 
ure and  his  reason  ?  He  drank  his  coflfee  slowly ;  then 
he  asked  for  a  newspaper.  The  street  was  quiet,  and 
people  left  the  caje  one  by  one. 

Behind  his  newspaper  he  reflected.  It  was  his  fever- 
ish curiosity  that  made  hun  admit  that  Cafl&^'s  death 
would  be  discovered  during  the  evening.  In  reality,  it 
might  easily  remain  undiscovered  until  the  next  day. 

[los] 


HECTOR  MALOT 

But  he  could  not  stay  in  the  cafi  until  the  next  day,  nor 
even  until  midnight.  Perhaps  he  had  remained  there 
too  long  already. 

He  did  not  wish  to  go  yet,  so  he  ordered  writing  ma- 
terials, and  paid  the  waiter,  in  case  he  might  wish  to  go 
hastily  if  anything  occurred. 

What  should  he  write?  He  wished  to  test  himself, 
and  found  that  he  was  able  to  write  clearly,  and  to  se- 
lect the  proper  words;  but  when  he  came  to  read  it 
over,  his  will  failed  him. 

Time  passed.  Suddenly  there  was  a  movement  under 
the  porte-cochere  of  "the  house,"  and  a  man  ran  through 
the  street.    Two  or  three  persons  stopped  in  a  group. 

Without  hurrying  too  much,  Saniel  went  out,  and  in 
a  strong  voice  asked  what  had  happened. 

"An  agent  of  business  has  been  assassinated  in  his 
office.  Word  has  been  sent  to  the  police  bureau  in  the 
Rue  du  Hasard." 


[106I 


CHAPTER  XIV 

THE  EXAMINATION 

;ANIEL  was  there  to  observe,  without 
having  decided  what  he  should  do. 
Instantly,  with  the  decision  that  had 
failed  him  so  often  during  his  vigil,  he 
resolved  to  go  to  Cafh^'s.    Was  he  not 
a  doctor,  and  the  physician  of  the  dead 
man  ?    What  could  be  more  natural  ? 
"A  money-lender!"   he  exclaimed. 
"Is  it  Monsieur  Caffie?" 
"Exactly." 

"But  I  am  his  doctor." 

"A  doctor!    Here  is  a  doctor!"  cried  several  voices. 
The  crowd  parted,  and  Saniel  passed  under  the  porte- 
cocherh,  where  the  concierge,  half  fainting,  was  seated  on 
a  chair,  surrounded   by  all  the  maids  of  the  house 
and  several  neighbors,  to  whom  she  related  the  news. 
By  using  his  elbows  he  was  able  to  approach  her. 
"Who  has  s^id  Monsieur Caffie  is  dead?"  he  asked 
with  authority. 

"No  one  has  said  he  is  dead;  at  least,  I  have  not" 
"Well,  then?" 

"There  is  a  stain  of  blood  that  has  run  from  his 
office  down  to  the  landing;  and  as  he  is  at  home,  since 
the  light  of  his  lamp  is  seen  in  the  court,  and  he  never 
leaves  it  burning  when  he  goes  to  dinner,  something 

[  107  ] 


HECTOR  MALOT 

must  have  happened.    And  why  are  his  curtains  drawn  ? 
He  always  leaves  them  open." 

At  this  moment  two  policemen  appeared,  preceded 
by  a  locksmith  armed  with  a  bunch  of  keys,  and  a  little 
man  with  a  shrewd,  sharp  appearance,  wearing  spec- 
tacles, and  a  hat  from  under  which  fell  blond  curls. 
The  commissioner  of  police  probably. 

"On  which  story?"  he  asked  the  concierge. 

"On  the  first." 

"Come  with  us." 

He  started  to  go  upstairs,  accompanied  by  the  con- 
cierge, the  locksmith,  and  one  of  the  policemen;  Saniel 
wished  to  follow  them,  but  the  other  policeman  barred 
the  way. 

"Pardon,  Monsieur  Commissioner,"  Saniel  said. 

"What  do  you  wish,  sir?" 

"I  am  Monsieur  Caffie's  physician." 

"Your  name?" 

"Doctor  Saniel." 

"Let  the  doctor  pass,"  the  commissioner  said,  "but 
alone.  Make  every  one  go  out,  and  shut  the  porte- 
cochhe." 

On  reaching  the  landing  the  commissioner  stopped  to 
look  at  the  brown  stain  which,  running  under  the  door, 
spread  over  the  tiling,  as  Caffi^  never  had  had  a  mat. 

"It  is  certainly  a  stain  of  blood,"  Saniel  said,  who 
stopped  to  examine  it  and  dipped  his  finger  in  it. 

"Open  the  door,"  the  commissioner  said  to  the 
locksmith. 

The  latter  examined  the  lock,  looked  among  his 
keys,  selected  one,  and  unlocked  the  door. 

[108] 


CONSCIENCE 

"Let  no  one  enter,"  the  commissioner  said.  "Doc- 
tor, have  the  goodness  to  follow  me." 

And,  going  ahead,  he  entered  the  first  office,  that  of 
the  clerk,  followed  by  Saniel.  Two  little  rills  of  blood, 
already  thickened,  starting  from  Caffi^'s  chair,  and 
running  across  the  tiled  floor,  which  sloped  a  little 
toward  the  side  of  the  staircase,  joined  in  the  stain 
which  caused  the  discovery  of  the  crime.  The  com- 
missioner and  Saniel  took  care  not  to  step  in  it. 

"The  unfortunate  man  has  had  his  throat  cut," 
Saniel  said.  "Death  must  have  occurred  two  or  three 
hours  ago.    There  is  nothing  to  do." 

"Speak  for  yourself,  doctor." 

And,  stooping,  he  picked  up  the  knife. 

"  Is  it  not  a  butcher's  knife  ?  "  asked  Saniel,  who  could 
only  use  this  word. 

"It  looks  like  it." 

He  had  raised  Caffi^'s  head  and  examined  the 
wound. 

"You  see,"  he  said,  "that  the  victim  has  been  butch- 
ered. The  stroke  was  from  left  to  right,  by  a  firm  hand 
which  must  be  accustomed  to  handle  this  knife.  But  it 
is  not  only  a  strong  and  practised  hand  that  has  done 
this  deed ;  it  was  guided  by  an  intelligence  that  knew 
how  to  proceed  to  insure  a  quick,  almost  instantaneous 
death,  and  at  the  same  time  a  silent  one." 

"You  think  it  was  done  by  a  butcher?" 

"By  a  professional  killer;  the  larynx  has  been  cut 
above  the  glottis,  and  with  the  same  stroke  the  two  car- 
otid arteries,  with  the  jugular  veins.  As  the  assassin 
had  to  raise  the  head,  the  victim  was  not  able  to  cry 

[109] 


HECTOR  MALOT 

out;   considerable  blood  has  flowed,  and  death  must 
have  ensued  in  one  or  two  minutes." 

"The  scene  appears  to  me  very  well  reconstructed." 

"The  blood  should  have  burst  out  in  this  direction," 
Saniel  continued,  pointing  to  the  door.  "But  as  this 
door  was  open,  nothing  is  to  be  seen." 

While  Saniel  spoke,  the  commissioner  threw  a  glance 
about  the  room — the  glance  of  the  police,  which  takes  in 
everything. 

"The  safe  is  open,"  he  said.  "The  affair  becomes 
clear;  the  assassination  was  followed  by  theft." 

There  was  a  door  opposite  to  the  entrance,  which  the 
commissioner  opened ;  it  was  that  of  Caffie's  bedroom. 

"I  will  give  you  a  man  to  help  you  carry  the  body 
into  this  room,  where  you  can  continue  your  examina- 
tion more  easily,  while  I  will  continue  my  investiga- 
tions in  this  office." 

Saniel  would  have  liked  to  remain  in  the  office  to 
assist  at  these  investigations,  but  it  was  impossible  to 
raise  an  objection.  The  chair  was  rolled  into  the  bed- 
room, where  two  candles  had  been  lighted  on  the  man- 
tel, and  when  the  body  was  laid  on  the  bed,  the  com- 
missioner returned  to  the  office. 

Saniel  made  his  examination  last  as  long  a  time  as 
possible,  to  the  end  that  he  need  not  leave  the  house; 
but  he  could  not  prolong  it  beyond  certain  limits. 
When  they  were  reached,  he  returned  to  the  clerk's 
office,  where  the  commissioner  had  installed  himself, 
and  was  hearing  the  concierge'' s  deposition. 

"And  so,"  he  said,  "from  five  to  seven  o'clock  no 
one  asked  for  M.  Caffi6?" 

[no] 


CONSCIENCE 

"No  one.  But  I  left  my  lodge  at  a  quarter  past  five 
to  light  the  gas  on  the  stairs;  that  took  me  twenty  min- 
utes, because  I  am  stiff  in  my  joints,  and  during  this 
time  some  one  might  have  gone  up  and  down  the  stairs 
without  my  seeing  them." 

"Well,"  the  commissioner  said,  turning  to  Saniel, 
"have  you  found  any  distinguishing  feature?" 

"No;  there  is  only  the  wound  on  the  neck." 

"Will  you  draw  up  your  medico-legal  report  while  I 
continue  my  inquest?" 

"Willingly." 

And,  without  waiting,  he  seated  himself  at  the  clerk's 
desk,  facing  the  commissioner's  secretary,  who  had  ar- 
rived a  few  minutes  previous. 

"I  am  going  to  make  you  take  the  oath,"  the  com- 
missioner said. 

After  this  formality  Saniel  began  his  report : 

"We,  the  undersigned,  Victor  Saniel,  doctor  of  medi- 
cine of  the  Paris  Faculty,  residing  in  Paris  in  the  Rue 
Louis-le- Grand,  after  having  taken  an  oath  to  fulfil 
in  all  honor  and  conscience  the  mission  confided  to 
us " 

All  the  time  that  he  was  writing  he  paid  attention  to 
everything  that  was  said,  and  did  not  lose  one  word  of 
the  concierge's  deposition. 

"I  am  certain,"  she  said,  "that  from  half-past  five 
until  now  no  one  has  gone  up  or  down  the  stairs  but  the 
people  who  live  in  the  house." 

"But  before  half -past  five?" 

"I  have  told  you  that  from  a  quarter  past  five  until 
half -past  I  was  not  in  my  lodge." 

[Ill] 


HECTOR  MALOT 

"And  before  a  quarter  past  five  o'clock?" 

"Several  persons  passed  whom  I  did  not  know." 

"Did  any  one  among  them  ask  you  for  Monsieur 
Caffi^?" 

"No;  that  is  to  say,  yes.  There  was  one  who  asked 
me  if  Monsieur  Caffie  was  at  home;  but  I  know  him 
well;  that  is  why  I  answered  No." 

"And  who  is  he?" 

"One  of  Monsieur  Cafhe's  old  clerks." 

"His  name?" 

"  Monsieur  Florentin — Monsieur  Florentin  Cormier." 

Saniel's  hand  was  arrested  at  this  name,  but  he  did 
not  raise  his  head. 

"At  what  hour  did  he  come?"  asked  the  commis- 
sioner. 

"Near  three  o'clock,  before  rather  than  after." 

"Did  you  see  him  go  away?" 

"Certainly,  he  spoke  to  me." 

"What  time  was  it?" 

"Half-past  three." 

"Do  you  think  that  death  could  have  occurred  at 
this  moment?"  the  commissioner  asked,  turning  to 
Saniel. 

"No;  I  think  it  must  have  been  between  five  and 
six  o'clock." 

"  It  is  wrong  for  the  commissioner  to  suspect  Monsieur 
Florentin,"  cried  the  concierge.  "He  is  a  good  young 
man,  incapable  of  harming  a  fly.  And  then,  there  is  a 
good  reason  why  death  could  not  have  taken  place  be- 
tween three  o'clock  and  half -past;  it  is  that  Monsieur 
Cafl5e's  lamp  was  lighted,  and  you  know  the  poor  gen- 

[112] 


CONSCIENCE 

tleman  was  not  a  man  to  light  his  lamp  in  broad  day- 
light, looking  as  he  was " 

She  stopped  abruptly,  striking  her  forehead  with  her 
hand. 

"  That  is  what  I  remember,  and  you  will  see  that  Mon- 
sieur Florentin  has  nothing  to  do  with  this  affair.  As  I 
went  upstairs  at  a  quarter  past  five  to  light  my  gas,  some 
one  came  behind  me  and  rang  Monsieur  Cafii^'s  bell, 
and  rapped  three  or  four  times  at  equal  distances,  which 
is  the  signal  to  open  the  door." 

Again  Saniel's  pen  stopped,  and  he  was  obliged  to 
lean  his  hand  on  the  table  to  prevent  its  trembling. 

"Who  was  it?" 

"Ah!  That  I  do  not  know,"  she  answered.  "I  did 
not  see  him,  but  I  heard  him,  the  step  of  a  man.  It 
was  this  rascal  who  killed  him,  you  may  be  sure." 

This  seemed  likely. 

"He  went  out  while  I  was  on  the  stairs;  he  knew  the 
customs  of  the  house." 

Saniel  continued  his  report. 

After  having  questioned  and  cross-questioned  the 
concierge  without  being  able  to  mak£  her  say  more,  the 
commissioner  dismissed  her,  and  leaving  Saniel  at  his 
work,  he  passed  into  Caffi^'s  office,  where  he  remained 
a  long  time. 

When  he  returned  he  brought  a  small  note-book  that 
he  consulted.  Without  doubt  it  was  the  book  of  Caffi6's 
safe,  simple  and  primitive,  like  everything  relating  to 
the  old  man's  habits,  governed  by  the  narrowest  econ- 
omy in  his  expenses,  as  well  as  in  his  work. 

"According  to  this  note-book,"  the  commissioner 
8  [113] 


HECTOR  MALOT 

said  to  his  secretary,  "thirty-five  or  thirty-six  thousand 
francs  must  have  been  taken  from  the  safe;  but  there 
are  left  deeds  and  papers  for  a  large  sum." 

Saniel,  who  had  finished  his  report,  did  not  take  his 
eyes  from  the  note-book,  and  what  he  could  see  reas- 
sured him.  Evidently  these  accounts  were  reduced  to 
a  minimum:  a  date,  a  name,  a  sum,  and  after  this 
name  a  capital  P,  which,  without  doubt,  meant  "paid." 
It  was  hardly  possible  that  with  such  a  system  Caffie 
had  ever  taken  the  trouble  to  enter  the  number  of  the 
bills  that  had  passed  through  his  hands;  in  any  case,  if 
he  did,  it  was  not  in  this  note-book.  Would  another 
one  be  found  ? 

"My  report  is  finished,"  he  said.    "Here  it  is." 

"Since  you  are  here,  perhaps  you  can  give  me  some 
information  concerning  the  habits  of  the  victim  and  the 
persons  he  received." 

"Not  at  all.  I  have  known  him  but  a  short  time,  and 
he  was  my  patient,  as  I  was  his  client,  by  accident. 
He  undertook  an  affair  for  me,  and  I  gave  him  advice; 
he  was  in  the  last  stage  of  diabetes.  The  assassin  has- 
tened his  death  only  a  short  time — a,  few  days." 

"That  is  nothing;  he  hastened  it." 

" Oh,  certainly!  Otherwise,  if  he  is  skilful  in  cutting 
throats,  perhaps  he  is  less  so  in  making  a  diagnosis  of 
their  maladies." 

"That  is  probable,"  responded  the  commissioner, 
smiling.    "You  think  it  was  a  butcher?" 

"It  seems  probable." 

"The  knife?" 

"He  might  have  stolen  it  or  found  it." 
[114] 


CONSCIENCE 

"But  the  mode  of  operating?" 

"That,  it  seems  to  me,  is  the  point  from  where  we 
should  start." 

Saniel  could  remain  no  longer,  and  he  rose  to  leave. 

"You  have  my  address,"  he  said;  "but  I  must  tell 
you,  if  you  want  me,  I  leave  to-morrow  for  Nice.  But 
I  shall  be  absent  only  just  long  enough  to  go  and 
return." 

"If  we  want  you,  it  will  not  be  for  several  days.  We 
shall  not  get  on  very  rapidly,  we  have  so  little  to  guide 
us." 


C"5] 


CHAPTER  XV 

A  NEW  PLAN 

ANIEL  walked  home  briskly.  If,  more 
than  once  during  this  interview,  his 
emotion  was  poignant,  he  could  not 
but  be  satisfied  with  the  result.  The 
concierge  had  not  seen  him,  that  was 
henceforth  unquestionable;  the  hy- 
pothesis of  the  butcher's  knife  was  put 
in  a  way  to  make  his  fortune;  and  it 
seemed  probable  that  Caffie  had  not  kept  the  numbers 
of  the  bank-notes. 

But  if  they  had  been  noted,  and  should  the  note- 
book containing  them  be  discovered  later,  the  danger 
was  not  immediate.  While  writing  his  report  and  hs- 
tening  to  the  concierge^ s  deposition,  by  a  sort  of  inspira- 
tion he  thought  of  a  way  of  disposing  of  them.  He 
would  divide  them  into  small  packages,  place  them  in 
envelopes,  and  address  them  with  dififerent  initials  to 
the  poste  restante,  where  they  would  remain  until  he 
could  call  for  them  without  compromising  himself. 

In  the  deposition  of  the  concierge,  in  the  track  indi- 
cated by  the  knife,  in  the  poste  restante,  he  had  just  mo- 
tives for  satisfaction,  that  made  him  breathe  freely. 
Decidedly,  fate  seemed  to  be  with  him,  and  he  should 
have  been  able  to  say  that  everything  was  going  well,  if 


CONSCIENCE 

he  had  not  committed  the  imprudence  of  entering  the 
cal^.  Why  had  he  gone  there  and  remained  long 
enough  to  attract  attention?  What  might  not  be  the 
consequences  of  this  stupidity  ? 

As  soon  as  he  reached  home  and  his  door  was  closed, 
he  carried  out  his  intentions  regarding  the  bank-notes, 
dividing  them  into  ten  packages.  His  first  thought  was 
to  place  them  in  the  nearest  letter-box,  but  reflection 
showed  him  that  this  would  be  unwise,  and  he  decided 
to  mail  each  one  in  a  different  quarter  of  the  city. 

After  his  long  walk  of  the  morning,  and  the  emotions 
of  the  evening,  he  felt  a  fatigue  that  he  had  never 
known  before,  but  he  comprehended  that  he  was  not  at 
liberty  to  yield  to  this  weariness.  A  new  situation  was 
made  for  him,  and  henceforth  he  no  longer  belonged  to 
himself.  For  the  rest  of  his  life  he  would  be  the  pris- 
oner of  his  crime.  And  it  was  this  crime  which,  from 
this  evening,  would  command,  and  he  must  obey. 

Why  had  he  not  foreseen  this  situation  when,  weigh- 
ing the  pro  and  can  like  an  intelligent  man  who  can 
scrutinize  the  future  under  all  its  phases,  he  had  exam- 
ined what  must  happen?  But  surprising  as  it  was,  the 
discovery  was  no  less  certain,  and  the  sad  and  trouble- 
some proof  was  that,  however  intelligent  one  may  be, 
one  can  always  learn  by  experience. 

What  was  there  yet  to  learn  ?  He  confessed  that  he 
found  himself  face  to  face  with  the  unknown,  and  all 
that  he  wished  was,  that  this  lesson  he  had  learned  from 
experience  might  be  the  hardest.  It  would  be  folly  to 
imagine  that  it  was  the  last.    Time  would  show. 

When  he  returned  home,  after  posting  his  letters,  it 
[117] 


HECTOR  MALOT 

was  long  past  one  o'clock.  He  went  to  bed  immediately, 
and  slept  heavily,  without  waking  or  dreaming. 

It  was  broad  daylight  when  he  opened  his  eyes  the 
next  morning.  Surprised  at  having  slept  so  late,  he 
jumped  up  and  looked  at  his  watch,  which  said  eight 
o'clock.  But  as  he  should  not  leave  until  a  quarter  past 
eleven,  he  had  plenty  of  time. 

How  should  he  employ  it  ? 

It  was  the  first  time  in  years  that  he  had  asked  him- 
self such  a  question;  he,  who  each  day  always  found 
that  he  needed  three  or  four  hours  more  to  carry  out 
his  programme. 

He  dressed  slowly,  and  then  thought  of  writing  to 
Phillis  to  tell  her  of  his  trip  to  Nice.  But  suddenly  he 
changed  his  mind,  and  decided  to  go  to  see  her. 

The  preceding  year  he  attended  Madame  Cormier, 
who  had  been  stricken  with  paralysis,  and  he  could  oc- 
casionally present  himself  at  her  house  without  appear- 
ing to  call  upon  Phillis.  It  was  easy  to  say  that  he  was 
passing  by,  and  wished  to  learn  news  of  the  patient 
whom  he  had  cured. 

At  nine  o'clock  he  knocked  at  her  door. 

"Enter,"  a  man's  voice  said. 

He  was  surprised,  for  in  his  visits  to  Madame  Cor- 
mier he  had  never  seen  a  man  there.  He  crossed  the 
hall  and  knocked  at  the  dining-room  door.  This  time 
it  was  PhiUis  who  bid  him  come  in. 

He  opened  the  door  and  saw  Phillis,  in  a  gray  blouse, 
seated  before  a  large  table  placed  by  the  window.  She 
was  painting  some  cards. 

Hearing  steps,  she  turned  her  head  and  instantly 
[ii8] 


CONSCIENCE 

rose,  but  she  restrained  the  cry — the  name  that  was  on 
her  lips. 

"Mamma,"  she  said,  "here  is  Doctor  Saniel." 

Madame  Cormier  entered,  walking  with  difficulty; 
for,  if  Saniel  had  put  her  on  her  feet,  he  had  not  given 
her  the  suppleness  or  the  grace  of  youth. 

After  a  few  words,  Saniel  explained  that,  having  to 
pay  a  visit  to  the  Batignolles,  he  would  not  come  so 
hear  his  former  patient  without  calling  to  see  her. 

While  Madame  Cormier  told  at  great  length  how 
she  felt,  and  also  how  she  did  not  feel,  Phillis  looked  at 
Saniel,  uneasy  to  see  his  face  so  convulsed.  Surely, 
something  very  serious  had  happened;  his  visit  said 
this.  But  what  ?  Her  anguish  was  so  much  the  greater, 
because  he  certainly  avoided  looking  at  her.  Why? 
She  had  done  nothing,  and  could  find  nothing  with 
which  to  reproach  herself. 

At  this  moment  the  door  opened,  and  a  man  still 
young,  tall,  with  a  curled  beard,  entered  the  room. 

"My  son,"  Madame  Cormier  said. 

"My  brother  Florentin,  of  whom  we  have  spoken  so 
often,"  Phillis  said. 

Florentin!  Was  he  then  becoming  imbecile,  that  he 
had  not  thought  the  voice  of  the  man  who  bid  him  enter 
was  that  of  Phillis's  brother?  Was  he  so  profoundly 
overwhelmed  that  such  a  simple  reasoning  was  impos- 
sible to  him  ?  Decidedly,  it  was  important  for  him  to 
go  away  as  quickly  as  possible;  the  journey  would  calm 
his  nerves. 

"They  wrote  to  me,"  Florentin  said,  "and  since  my 
return  they  have  told  me  how  good  you  were  to  my 

["9l 


HECTOR  MALOT 

mother.  Permit  me  to  thank  you  from  a  touched  and 
grateful  heart.  I  hope  that  before  long  this  gratitude 
will  be  something  more  than  a  vain  word." 

"Do  not  let  us  speak  of  that,"  Saniel  said,  looking  at 
Phillis  with  a  frankness  and  an  open  countenance  that 
reassured  heron  a  certain  point.  "It  is  I  who  am 
obliged  to  Madame  Cormier.  If  the  word  were  not 
barbarous,  I  should  say  that  her  illness  has  been  a 
good  thing  for  me." 

To  turn  the  conversation,  and  because  he  wished  to 
speak  to  Phillis  alone,  he  approached  her  table  and 
talked  with  her  about  her  work. 

Saniel  then  gave  Madame  Cormier  some  advice,  and 
rose  to  go. 

Phillis  followed  him,  and  Florentin  was  about  to  ac- 
company them,  but  Phillis  stopped  him. 

"I  wish  to  ask  Doctor  Saniel  a  question,"  she  said. 

When  they  were  on  the  landing  she  closed  the 
door. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  she  asked  in  a  hurried  and 
trembling  voice. 

"  I  wished  to  tell  you  that  I  start  for  Monaco  at  eleven 
o'clock." 

"You  are  going  away?" 

"I  have  received  two  hundred  francs  from  a  patient, 
and  I  am  going  to  risk  them  at  play.  Two  hundred 
francs  will  not  pay  Jardine  or  the  others,  but  with  them 
I  may  win  several  thousands  of  francs." 

"Oh!  Poor  dear!  How  desperate  you  must  be — 
you,  such  as  you  are,  to  have  such  an  idea!" 

"Am  I  wrong?" 

[120] 


CONSCIENCE 

"Never  wrong  to  my  eyes,  to  my  heart,  to  my  love. 
O  my  beloved,  may  fortune  be  with  you!" 

"Give  me  your  hand." 

She  looked  around,  listening.    There  was  no  one, 
no  noise. 

Then,  drawing  him  toward  her,  she  put  her  lips  on 
his: 

"All  yours,  yours!" 
•    "I  will  return  Tuesday." 

"Tuesday,  at  five  o'clock,  I  shaU  be  there." 


[121] 


CHAPTER  XVI 

THE  SMILES  OF  FORTUNE 

Jo  one  knew  so  little  about  play  as  San- 
iel.  He  knew  that  people  played 
at  Monaco,  and  that  was  all.  He 
bought  his  ticket  for  Monaco,  and  left 
the  train  at  that  place. 

On  leaving  the  station  he  looked 
all  about  him,  to  see  what  kind  of  a 
place  it  was.      Seeing  nothing  that 
looked   like  a  gambling-house   as   he  understood  it, 
that  is,  like  the  Casino  de  Royat,  the  only  establish- 
ment of  the  kind  that  he  had  ever  seen,  he  asked  a 
passer-by: 
"Where  is  the  gambling-house?" 
"There  is  none  at  Monaco." 
"I  thought  there  was." 
"There  is  one  at  Monte  Carlo." 
"Is  it  far?" 
"Over  yonder." 

With  his  hand  the  man  indicated,  on  the  slope  of  the 
mountain,  a  green  spot  where,  in  the  midst  of  the  foli- 
age, were  seen  roofs  and  facades  of  imposing  buildings. 
Saniel  thanked  him  and  followed  his  directions,  while 
the  man,  calling  another,  related  the  question  that  had 
been  addressed  to  him,  and  both  laughed,  shrugging 
their  shoulders.    Could  any  one  be  so  stupid  as  these 

[122] 


CONSCIENCE 

Parisians!  Another  one  who  was  going  to  be  plucked, 
and  who  came  from  Paris  expressly  for  that!  Was  he 
not  funny,  with  his  big  legs  and  arms  ? 

Without  troubling  himself  about  the  laughter  that  he 
heard  behind  him,  Saniel  continued  his  way.  In  spite 
of  his  night  on  the  train,  he  felt  no  fatigue;  on  the  con- 
trary, his  mind  and  body  were  active.  The  journey  had 
calmed  the  agitation  of  his  nerves,  and  it  was  with 
perfect  tranquillity  he  looked  back  upon  all  that  had 
passed  before  his  departure.  In  the  state  of  satisfac- 
tion that  was  his  now,  he  had  nothing  more  to  fear  from 
stupidity  or  acts  of  folly;  and,  since  he  had  recovered  his 
will,  all  would  go  well.  No  more  backward  glances,  and 
fewer  still  before.    The  prese  ntonly  should  absorb  him. 

The  present,  at  this  moment,  was  play.  What  did 
they  play?  He  knew  roulette,  but  he  knew  not  if  the 
game  was  roulette.  He  would  do  as  others  did.  If  he 
were  ridiculed,  it  was  of  little  importance;  and  in 
reality  he  should  desire  to  be  ridiculed.  People  re- 
member with  pleasure  those  at  whom  they  have  laughed, 
and  he  had  come  here  to  find  some  one  who  would 
remember  him. 

When  he  entered  the  salon  where  the  playing  was  go- 
ing on,  he  observed  that  a  religious  silence  reigned  there. 
Round  a  large  table  covered  vrith  a  carpet  of  green 
cloth,  which  was  divided  by  lines  and  figures,  some 
men  were  seated  on  high  chairs,  making  them  appear 
Hke  officers;  others,  on  lower  chairs,  or  simply  standing 
about  the  table,  pushed  or  picked  up  the  louis  and  bank 
bills  on  the  green  cloth,  and  a  strong  voice  repeated,  in 
a  monotonous  tone: 

I  "3] 


HECTOR  MALOT 

** Messieurs,  jaites  voire  jeu!  Le  jeii  est  fait!  Rien  ne 
va  plusF' 

Then  a  little  ivory  ball  was  thrown  into  a  cylinder, 
where  it  rolled  with  a  metallic  noise.  Although  he  had 
never  seen  roulette,  it  required  no  effort  to  divine  that 
this  was  the  game. 

And,  before  putting  several  louis  on  the  table,  he 
looked  about  him  to  see  how  it  was  played.  But  after 
the  tenth  time  he  understood  as  Httle  as  at  first.  With 
the  rakes  the  croupiers  collected  the  stakes  of  certain 
players;  with  these  same  rakes  they  doubled,  sepa- 
rated, or  even  paid,  in  proportions  of  which  he  took  no 
account,  certain  others,  and  that  was  all. 

But  it  mattered  little.  Having  seen  how  the  money 
was  placed  on  the  table,  that  was  sufficient. 

He  had  five  louis  in  his  hand  when  the  croupier  said : 

^^  Messieurs,  jaites  votre  jeu.^^ 

He  placed  them  on  the  number  thirty-two,  or,  at 
least,  he  believed  that  he  placed  them  on  this  number. 

''Rien  ne  va  plus!"    The  ball  rolled  in  the  cylinder. 

"Thirty-one!"  cried  the  croupier,  adding  some  other 
words  that  Saniel  did  not  understand.  So  little  did  he 
understand  roulette  that  he  thought  he  had  lost.  He 
had  placed  his  stake  on  the  thirty-two,  and  it  was  the 
thirty-one  that  had  appeared;  the  bank  had  won.  He 
was  surprised  to  see  the  croupier  push  a  heap  of  gold 
toward  him,  which  amounted  to  nearly  a  hundred  louis, 
and  accompany  this  movement  with  a  glance  which, 
without  any  doubt,  meant  to  say: 

"For  you,  sir." 

What  should  he  do?  Since  he  had  lost,  he  could 
[124] 


CONSCIENCE 

not  take  this  money  that  was  given  to  him  by  mis- 
take. 

In  placing  his  stake  on  the  table,  he  had  leaned  over 
the  shoulder  of  a  gentleman  whose  hair  and  beard  were 
of  a  most  extraordinary  black,  who,  without  playing, 
pricked  a  card  with  a  pin.  This  gentleman  turned  to- 
ward him,  and  with  an  amiable  smile,  and  in  a  most 
gracious  tone  said : 
•    "It  is  yours,  sir." 

Decidedly,  he  was  mistaken  in  thinking  he  had  lost; 
and  he  must  take  this  heap  of  louis,  which  he  did,  but 
neglecting  to  take,  also,  his  first  stake. 

The  game  continued. 

"Thirty-two,"  called  the  croupier. 

Saniel  perceived  that  his  five  louis  had  remained  on 
the  thirty-two;  he  believed  that  he  had  won,  since  this 
number  was  called,  and  his  ignorance  was  such  that  he 
did  not  know  that  in  roulette  a  number  is  paid  thirty- 
six  times  the  stake :  the  croupier  would,  therefore,  push 
toward  him  one  hundred  and  eighty  louis. 
•  But,  to  his  great  surprise,  he  pushed  him  no  more 
money  than  at  first.  This  was  incomprehensible. 
When  he  lost,  money  was  paid  to  him,  and  when  he 
won,  he  was  paid  only  half  his  due. 

His  face  betrayed  his  astonishment  so  plainly  that  he 
saw  a  mocking  smile  in  the  eyes  of  the  black-haired 
man,  who  had  again  turned  toward  him. 

As  he  played  merely  for  the  sake  of  playing,  and  not 
to  win  or  lose,  he  pocketed  all  that  was  pushed  toward 
him  and  his  stake. 

"Since  you  are  not  going  to  play  any  more,"  said  the 
[125] 


HECTOR  MALOT 

amiable  gentleman,  leaving  his  chair,  "will  you  permit 
me  to  say  a  word  to  you?" 

Saniel  bowed,  and  together  they  left  the  table.  When 
they  were  far  enough  away  to  converse  without  disturb- 
ing the  players,  the  gentleman  bowed  ceremoniously: 

"Permit  me  to  present  myself — Prince  Mazzazoli." 

Saniel  replied  by  giving  his  name  and  position. 

"Well,  doctor,"  the  prince  said  with  a  strong  Italian  ac- 
cent, "you  will  pardon  me, I  hope,  for  making  the  simple 
observation  that  my  age  authorizes :  you  play  like  a  child . ' ' 

"Like  an  ignoramus,"  Saniel  replied,  without  being 
angry.  For,  however  unusual  this  observation  might  be, 
he  had  already  decided  that  it  might  be  a  good  thing 
in  the  future  to  call  upon  the  testimony  of  a  prince. 

"I  am  sure  you  are  still  asking  yourself  why  you  re- 
ceived eighteen  times  the  sum  of  your  stake  at  the  first 
play,  and  why  you  did  not  receive  thirty-six  times  the 
sum  at  the  second." 

"That  is  true." 

"Well,  I  will  tell  you."    And  he  proceeded  to  explain. 

Saniel  did  not  wait  for  the  conclusion  to  learn  the 
fact  that  this  very-much-dyed  Italian  prince  was  a  liar. 

"I  do  not  intend  to  play  again,"  he  said. 

"With  your  luck  that  would  be  more  than  a  fault." 

"I  wanted  a  certain  sum;  I  have  won  it,  and  that 
satisfies  me."^ 

"You  will  not  be  so  foolish  as  to  refuse  the  hand  that 
Fortune  holds  out?" 

"Are  you  sure  she  holds  it  out  to  me?"  Saniel  asked, 
finding  that  it  was  the  prince. 

"Do  not  doubt  it.    I  will  show  you " 

[126] 


CONSCIENCE 

"Thank  you;  but  I  never  break  a  resolution." 

In  another  moment  Saniel  would  have  turned  his 
back  on  the  man,  but  he  was  a  witness  whom  it  would 
be  well  to  treat  with  caution. 

"I  have  nothing  more  to  do  here,"  he  said,  politely. 
"Permit  me  to  retire,  after  having  thanked  you  for 
your  offer,  whose  kindness  I  appreciate." 

"Well,"  cried  the  prince,  "since  you  will  not  risk 
your  fate,  let  me  do  it  for  you.  This  money  may  be  a 
fetich.  Take  off  five  louis,  only  five  louis,  and  confide 
them  to  me.  I  will  play  them  according  to  my  com- 
binations, which  are  certain,  and  this  evening  I  will  give 
you  your  part  of  the  proceeds.  Where  are  you  staying  ? 
I  live  at  the  Villa  des  Palmes." 

"Nowhere;  I  have  just  arrived." 

"Then  let  us  meet  here  this  evening  at  ten  o'clock, 
in  this  room,  and  we  will  liquidate  our  association." 

His  first  impulse  was  to  refuse.  Of  what  use  to  give 
alms  to  this  old  monkey?  But,  after  all,  it  did  not  cost 
much  to  pay  his  witness  five  louis,  and  he  gave  them 
to  him. 

"A  thousand  thanks!    This  evening,  at  ten  o'clock." 

As  Saniel  left  the  room  he  found  himself  face  to  face 
with  his  old  comrade  Duphot,  who  was  accompanied 
by  a  woman,  the  same  whom  he  had  cured. 

"What!  you  here?"  both  the  lover  and  his  mistress 
exclaimed. 

Saniel  related  why  he  was  at  Monaco,  and  what  he 
had  done  since  his  arrival, 

"With  my  money!  Ah!  She  is  very  well,"  Duphot 
cried. 

[127] 


HECTOR  MALOT 

"And  you  will  play  no  more?"  the  woman  asked. 

"I  have  all  I  want." 

"Then  you  will  play  for  me." 

He  wished  to  decline,  but  they  drew  him  to  the  rou- 
lette table,  and  each  put  a  louis  in  his  hand. 

"Play." 

"How?" 

"As  inspiration  counsels  you.    You  have  the  luck." 

But  his  luck  had  died.    The  two  louis  were  lost. 

They  gave  him  two  others,  which  won  eight. 

"You  see,  dear  friend." 

He  went  on,  with  varying  luck,  winning  and  losing. 

At  the  end  of  a  quarter  of  an  hour  they  permitted 
him  to  go. 

"And  what  are  you  going  to  do  now?"  Duphot 
asked. 

"To  send  what  I  owe  to  my  creditors  by  telegraph." 

"Do  you  know  where  the  telegraph  is?" 

"No." 

"I  will  go  with  you." 

This  was  a  second  witness  that  Saniel  was  too  wise 
to  shake  off. 

When  he  had  sent  his  telegram  to  Jardine,  he  had 
nothing  more  to  do  at  Monte  Carlo,  and  as  he  could  not 
leave  before  eleven  o'clock  in  the  evening,  he  was  idle, 
not  knowing  how  to  employ  his  time.  So  he  bought  a 
Nice  newspaper  and  seated  himself  in  the  garden, 
under  a  gaslight,  facing  the  dark  and  tranquil  sea. 
Perhaps  he  could  find  in  it  some  telegraph  despatch 
which  would  tell  him  what  had  occurred  in  the  Rue 
Sainte-Anne  since  his  departure. 

[128] 


CONSCIENCE 

At  the  end  of  the  paper,  under  "Latest  News,"  he 
read: 

"The  crime  of  the  Rue  Sainte-Anne  seems  to  take  a 
new  turn;  the  investigations  made  with  more  care  have 
led  to  the  discovery  of  a  trousers'  button,  to  which  is 
attached  a  piece  of  cloth.  It  shows,  therefore,  that  be- 
fore the  crime  there  was  a  struggle  between  the  victim 
and  the  assassin.  As  this  button  has  certain  letters  and 
marks,  it  is  a  valuable  clew  for  the  police." 

This  proof  of  a  struggle  between  the  victim  and  the 
assassin  made  Saniel  smile.  Who  could  tell  how  long 
this  button  had  been  there  ? 

Suddenly  he  left  his  seat,  and  entering  a  copse  he  ex- 
amined his  clothing.    Was  it  he  who  had  lost  it  ? 

But  soon  he  was  ashamed  of  this  unconscious  move- 
ment. The  button  which  the  police  were  so  proud  to 
discover,  did  not  belong  to  him.  This  new  track  on 
which  they  were  about  to  enter  did  not  lead  to  him. 


[129] 


GHAPTER  XVII 

PHILLIS'S  FEARS 

^N  Tuesday,  a  little  before  five  o'clock, 
as  she  had  promised,  Phillis  rang  at 
Saniel's  door,  and  he  left  his  laboratory 
where  he  was  at  work,  to  let  her  in. 
She  threw  herself  on  his  neck. 
"Well?"  she  asked,  in  a  trembling 
voice. 

He  told  her  how  he  had  played  and 
won,  without  stating  the  exact  sum;  also  the  proposi- 
tions of  the  Prince  Mazzazoli,  the  meeting  with  Duphot, 
and  the  telegram  to  Jardine. 

"Oh!    What  happiness!"  she  said,  pressing  him  in 
her  arms.    ' '  You  are  free ! ' ' 

"No  more  creditors!    I  am  my  own  master.    You 
see  it  was  a  good  inspiration.    Justice  willed  it." 
Then  interrupting  him : 

"Apropos  of  justice,  you  did  not  speak  of  Caffie  the 
morning  of  your  departure." 

"I  was  so  preoccupied  I  had  no  time  to  think  of 
Caffie." 

"Is  it  not  curious,  the  coincidence  of  his  death  with 
the  condemnation  that  we  pronounced  against  him? 
Does  it  not  prove  exactly  the  justice  of  things?" 
"If  you  choose." 

"As  the  money  you  won  at  Monaco  proves  to  you 
[130] 


CONSCIENCE 

that  what  is  just  will  happen.  Caffi6  is  punished  for  all 
his  rascalities  and  crimes,  and  you  are  rewarded  for 
your  sufiFerings." 

"Would  it  not  have  been  just  if  Caffi^  had  been  pun- 
ished sooner,  and  if  I  had  suffered  less?" 

She  remained  silent. 

"You  see,"  he  said  smiling,  "that  your  philosophy 
is  weak." 

"It  is  not  of  my  philosophy  that  I  am  thinking,  but 
of  Caffi^  and  ourselves." 

^'Ard  how  can  Caffie  be  associated  with  you  or 
yours?" 

"He  is,  or  rather  he  may  be,  if  this  justice  in  which  I 
believe  in  spite  of  your  joking  permits  him  to  be." 

"You  are  talking  in  enigmas." 

"What  have  you  heard  about  Caffie  since  you  went 
away?" 

"Nothing,  or  almost  nothing." 

"You  know  it  is  thought  that  the  crime  was  com- 
mitted by  a  butcher." 

"The  commissioner  picked  up  the  knife  before  me, 
and  it  is  certainly  a  butcher's  knife.  And  more  than 
that,  the  stroke  that  cut  Caffi6's  throat  was  given  by  a 
hand  accustomed  to  butchery.  I  have  indicated  this  in 
my  report." 

"Since  then,  more  careful  investigations  have  dis- 
covered a  trousers'  button " 

"Which  might  have  been  torn  off  in  a  struggle  be- 
tween Caffie  and  his  assassin,  I  read  in  a  newspaper. 
But  as  for  me,  I  do  not  believe  in  this  struggle.  Caffie's 
position  in  his  chair,  where  he  was  assaulted  and  where 

[131] 


HECTOR  MALOT 

he  died,  indicates  that  the  old  scamp  was  surprised. 
Otherwise,  if  he  had  not  been,  if  he  had  struggled,  he 
could  have  cried  out,  and,  without  doubt,  he  would  have 
been  heard." 

"If  you  knew  how  happy  I  am  to  hear  you  say  that!" 
she  cried. 

"Happy!  What  difference  can  it  make  to  you?" 
and  he  looked  at  her  in  surprise.  "Of  what  impor- 
tance is  it  to  you  whether  Caffie  was  killed  with  or 
without  a  struggle?  You  condemned  him;  he  is  dead. 
That  should  satisfy  you." 

"I  was  very  wrong  to  pronounce  this  condemnation, 
which  I  did  without  attaching  any  importance  to  it." 

"Do  you  think  that  hastened  its  execution?" 

"I  am  not  so  foolish  as  that,  but  I  should  be  better 
pleased  if  I  had  not  condemned  him." 

"Do  you  regret  it?" 

"I  regret  that  he  is  dead." 

"Decidedly,  the  enigma  continues;  but  you  know  I  do 
not  understand  it,  and,  if  you  wish,  we  will  stop  there. 
We  have  something  better  to  do  than  to  talk  of  CafiSe." 

"  On  the  contrary,  let  me  talk  to  you  of  him,  because 
we  want  your  advice." 

Again  he  looked  at  her,  trying  to  read  her  face  and 
to  divine  why  she  insisted  on  speaking  of  Cafi56,  when 
he  had  just  expressed  a  wish  not  to  speak  of  him. 
What  was  there  beneath  this  insistence  ? 

"I  will  listen,"  he  said;  "and,  since  you  wish  to  ask 
my  advice  on  the  subject,  you  must  tell  me  immediately 
what  you  mean." 

"You  are  right;  and  I  should  have  told  you  before, 
[132] 


CONSCIENCE 

but  embarrassment  and  shame  restrained  me.  And  I 
reproach  myself,  for  with  you  I  should  feel  neither  em- 
barrassment nor  reproach." 

"Assuredly." 

"But  before  everything  else,  I  must  tell  you — you 
must  know — that  my  brother  Florentin  is  a  good  and 
honest  boy;  you  must  believe  it,  you  must  be  convinced 
of  it." 

"I  am,  since  you  tell  me  so.  Besides,  he  produced 
the  best  impression  on  me  during  the  short  time  I  saw 
him  the  other  day  at  your  house." 

"Would  not  one  see  immediately  that  he  has  a  good 
nature?" 

"Certainly." 

"Frank  and  upright;  weak,  it  is  true,  and  a  little  ef- 
feminate also,  that  is,  lacking  energy,  letting  himself  be 
carried  away  by  goodness  and  tenderness.  This  weak- 
ness made  him  commit  a  fault  before  his  departure  for 
America.  I  have  kept  it  from  you  until  this  moment, 
but  you  must  know  it  now.  Loving  a  woman  who  con- 
trolled him  and  made  him  do  what  she  wished,  he  let 
himself  be  persuaded  to — take  a  sum  of  forty-five  francs 
that  she  demanded,  that  she  insisted  on  having  that 
evening,  hoping  to  be  able  to  replace  it  three  days  later, 
without  his  employer  discovering  it." 

"His  employer  was  Caffi^?" 

"No;  it  was  three  months  after  he  left  Caffi6,  and  he 
was  with  another  man  of  business  of  whom  I  have  never 
spoken  to  you,  and  now  you  understand  why.  The 
money  he  expected  failed  him;  his  fault  was  discov- 
ered, and  his  employer  lodged  a  complaint  against  him. 

[133] 


HECTOR  MALOT 

We  made  him  withdraw  his  complaint,  never  mind 
how,  and  Florentin  went  to  America  to  seek  his  fortune. 
And  since  you  have  seen  him,  you  admit  that  he  might 
be  capable  of  the  fault  that  he  committed,  without  be- 
ing capable — of  becoming  an  assassin." 

He  was  about  to  reply,  but  she  closed  his  lips  with  a 
quick  gesture. 

"You  will  see  why  I  speak  of  this,  and  you  will  un- 
derstand why  I  do  not  drop  the  subject  of  Caffie,  and 
of  this  button,  on  which  the  police  count  to  find  the 
criminal.    This  button  belonged  to  Florentin." 

' '  To  your  brother  ? ' '' 

"Yes,  to  Florentin,  who,  the  day  of  the  crime,  had 
been  to  see  Cafiie." 

"That  is  true;  the  concierge  told  the  commissioner  of 
police  that  he  called  about  three  o'clock." 

Phillis  gave  a  cry  of  despair. 

"They  know  he  was  there?  Then  it  is  more  serious 
than  we  imagined  or  believed." 

"In  answering  a  question  as  to  whom  Caffie  had  re- 
ceived that  day,  the  concierge  named  your  brother.  But 
as  this  visit  took  place  between  three  and  half -past,  and 
the  crime  was  certainly  committed  between  five  and 
half-past,  no  one  can  accuse  your  brother  of  being  the 
assassin,  since  he  left  before  Caffie  lighted  his  lamp. 
As  this  lamp  could  not  light  itself,  it  proves  that  he 
could  not  have  butchered  a  man  who  was  living  an 
hour  after  the  concierge  saw  your  brother  and  talked 
with  him." 

"What  you  say  is  a  great  relief;  if  you  could  know 
how  alarmed  we  have  been!" 

[134] 


CONSCIENCE 

"You  were  too  hasty  to  alarm  yourself." 

"Too  hasty?  But  when  Florentin  read  the  account 
to  us  and  came  to  the  button,  he  exclaimed,  'This  but- 
ton is  mine!'  and  we  experienced  a  shock  that  made  us 
lose  our  heads.  We  saw  the  police  falling  on  us,  ques- 
tioning Florentin,  reproaching  him  with  the  past,  which 
would  be  retailed  in  all  the  newspapers,  and  you  must 
understand  how  we  felt." 

"But  cannot  your  brother  explain  how  he  lost  this 
button  at  Caffie's?" 

"Certainly,  and  in  the  most  natural  way.  He  went 
to  see  Caffie,  to  ask  him  for  a  letter  of  recommendation, 
saying  that  he  had  been  his  clerk  for  several  years. 
Caffie  gave  it  to  him,  and  then,  in  the  course  of  conver- 
sation, Caffie  spoke  of  a  bundle  of  papers  that  he  could 
not  find.  Florentin  had  had  charge  of  these  papers, 
and  had  placed  them  on  a  high  shelf  in  the  closet.  As 
Caffie  could  not  find  them,  and  wanted  them,  Florentin 
brought  a  small  ladder,  and,  mounting  it,  found  them. 
He  was  about  to  descend  the  ladder,  when  he  made  a 
misstep,  and  in  trying  to  save  himself,  one  of  the  buttons 
of  his  trousers  was  pulled  off." 

"And  he  did  not  pick  it  up?" 

"He  did  not  even  notice  it  at  first.  But  later,  in  the 
street,  seeing  one  leg  of  his  trousers  longer  than  the 
other,  he  thought  of  the  ladder,  and  found  that  he  had 
lost  a  button.  He  would  not  return  to  Caffie's  to  look 
for  it,  of  course." 

"  Of  course." 

"How  could  he  foresee  that  Caffie  would  be  assas- 
sinated ?    That  the  crime  would  be  so  skilfully  planned 

[135] 


HECTOR  MALOT 

and  executed  that  the  criminal  would  escape?  That 
two  days  later  the  police  would  find  a  button  on  which 
they  would  build  a  story  that  would  make  him  the 
criminal?    Florentin  had  not  thought  of  all  that." 

"That  is  understood." 

"The  same  evening  he  replaced  the  button  by  an- 
other, and  it  was  only  on  reading  the  newspaper  that  he 
felt  there  might  be  something  serious  in  this  apparently 
insignificant  fact.    And  we  shared  his  alarm." 

"Have  you  spoken  to  any  one  of  this  button?" 

"Certainly  not;  we  know  too  much.  I  tell  you  of  it 
because  I  tell  you  everything;  and  if  we  are  menaced, 
we  have  no  help  to  expect,  except  from  you.  Florentin 
is  a  good  boy,  but  he  is  weak  and  foolish.  Mamma  is 
like  him  in  more  than  one  respect,  and  as  for  me,  al- 
though I  am  more  resistante,  I  confess  that,  in  the  face 
of  the  law  and  the  police,  I  should  easily  lose  my  head, 
like  children  who  begin  to  scream  when  they  are  left  in 
the  dark.  Is  not  the  law,  when  you  know  nothing  of  it, 
a  night  of  trouble,  full  of  horrors,  and  peopled  with 
phantoms?" 

"I  do  not  believe  there  is  the  danger  that  you  imag- 
ined in  the  first  moment  of  alarm." 

"It  was  natural." 

"Very  natural,  I  admit,  but  reflection  must  show 
how  little  foundation  there  is  for  it.  The  button  has 
not  the  name  of  the  tailor  who  furnished  it?" 

"No,  but  it  has  the  initials  and  the  mark  of  the 
manufacturer;  an  A  and  a  P,  with  a  crown  and  a  cock." 

"Well!  Among  two  or  three  thousand  tailors  in 
Paris,  how  is  it  possible  for  the  police  to  find  those  who 

[136] 


CONSCIENCE 

use  these  buttons?  And  when  the  tailors  are  found, 
how  could  they  designate  the  owner  of  this  button,  this 
one  exactly,  and  not  another  ?  It  is  looking  for  a  needle 
in  a  bundle  of  hay.  Where  did  your  brother  have  these 
trousers  made?    Did  he  bring  them  from  America?". 

"The  poor  boy  brought  nothing  from  America  but 
wretchedly  shabby  clothes,  and  we  had  to  clothe  him 
from  head  to  foot.  We  were  obliged  to  economize,  and 
a  little  tailor  in  the  Avenue  de  CUchy,  called  Valerius^ 
made  this  suit." 

"It  seems  to  me  scarcely  probable  that  the  police  will 
find  this  little  tailor.  But  if  they  do,  would  he  recognize 
the  button  as  coming  from  his  stock  ?  And,  if  they  get 
as  far  as  your  brother,  they  must  prove  that  there  was 
a  struggle ;  that  the  button  was  torn  off  in  this  struggle ; 
that  your  brother  was  in  the  Rue  Sainte-Anne  between 
five  and  six  o'clock;  in  which  case,  without  doubt,  he  will 
find  it  easy  to  prove  where  he  was  at  that  moment." 

"He  was  with  us — with  mamma." 

"You  see,  then,  you  need  not  feel  alarmed." 


[137] 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

A  GRAVE  DISCUSSION 

^EASSURED,  Phillis  hurried  to  return 
to  the  Rue  des  Moines,  to  share  with 
her  mother  and  brother  the  confidence 
that  Saniel  caused  her  to  feel. 

She  pulled  the  bell  with  a  trembling 
hand,  for  the  time  was  past  when  in 
this  quiet  house,  where  all  the  lodgers 
knew  each  other,  the  key  was  left  in 
the  door,  and  one  had  only  to  knock  before  entering. 
Since  the  newspapers  had  spoken  of  the  button,  all  was 
changed ;  the  feeling  of  liberty  and  security  had  disap- 
peared ;  the  door  was  always  closed,  and  when  the  bell 
rang  they  looked  at  each  other  in  fear  and  with  trem- 
bling. 

When  Florentin  opened  the  door,  the  table  was  set 
for  dinner. 

"I  was  afraid  something  had  happened  to  you," 
Madame  Cormier  said. 
"I  was  detained." 

She  took  off  her  hat  and  cloak  hastily. 
"You  have  learned  nothing?"    the  mother  asked, 
bringing  in  the  soup. 
"No." 

"They  spoke  to  you  of  nothing?"  Florentin  con- 
tinued in  a  low  voice. 

[138] 


CONSCIENCE 

"They  spoke  to  me  of  nothing  else;  or  I  heard  only 
that  when  I  was  not  addressed  directly." 

"What  was  said?" 

"No  one  believes  that  the  investigations  of  the  police 
bear  on  the  button." 

"You  see,  Florentin,"  Madame  Cormier  interrupted, 
smiling  at  her  son. 

But  he  shook  his  head. 

"However,  the  opinion  of  all  has  a  value,"  Phillis 
cried. 

"Speak  lower,"  Florentin  said. 

"It  is  thought  that  it  is  impossible  for  the  police  to 
find,  among  the  two  or  three  thousand  tailors  in  Paris, 
all  those  who  use  the  buttons  marked  A.  P.  And  if  they 
did  find  them,  they  could  not  designate  all  their  cus- 
tomers to  whom  they  have  furnished  these  buttons.  It 
is  really  looking  for  a  needle  in  a  bundle  of  hay." 

"When  one  takes  plenty  of  time,  one  finds  a  needle 
in  a  bundle  of  hay,"  Florentin  said. 

"You  ask  me  what  I  heard,  and  I  tell  you.  But  I  do 
not  depend  entirely  on  that.  As  I  passed  near  the  Rue 
Louis-le-Grand,  I  went  to  Doctor  Saniel's;  it  being 
his  office  hour  I  hoped  to  find  him." 

"You  told  him  the  situation?"  Florentin  exclaimed. 

In  any  other  circumstances  she  would  have  replied 
frankly,  explaining  that  she  had  perfect  confidence  in 
Saniel;  but  when  she  saw  her  brother's  agitation,  she 
could  not  exasperate  him  by  this  avowal,  above  all,  be- 
cause she  could  not  at  the  same  time  give  her  reasons 
for  her  faitn  in  him.  She  must  reassure  him  before 
everything, 

[139] 


HECTOR  MALOT 

"No,"  she  said,  "but  I  spoke  of  Caffi^  to  Doctor 
Saniel  without  his  being  surprised.  As  he  made  the 
first  deposition,  was  it  not  natural  that  my  curiosity 
should  wish  to  learn  a  little  more  than  the  newspapers 
tell?" 

"Never  mind,  the  act  must  appear  strange." 

"I  think  not.  But,  anyhow,  the  interest  that  we  have 
to  learn  all  made  me  overlook  thia;  and  I  think,  when  I 
have  told  you  the  doctor's  opinion,  you  will  not  regret 
my  visit." 

"And  this  opinion?"  Madame  Cormier  asked. 

"His  opinion  is,  that  there  was  no  struggle  between 
Caffie  and  the  assassin,  whereas  the  position  of  Caffi6 
in  the  chair  where  he  was  attacked  proves  that  he  was 
surprised.  Therefore,  if  there  was  no  struggle,  there 
was  no  button  torn  off,  and  all  the  scaffolding  of  the 
police  falls  to  the  ground." 

Madame  Cormier  breathed  a  profound  sigh  of  deliv- 
erance. 

"You  see,"  she  said  to  her  son. 

"And  the  doctor's  opinion  is  not  the  opinion  of  the 
first-comer,  it  is  not  even  that  of  an  ordinary  physician. 
It  is  that  of  the  physician  who  has  certified  to  the  death, 
and  who,  more  than  any  one,  has  power,  has  authority, 
to  say  how  it  was  given — by  surprise,  without  struggle, 
without  a  button  being  pulled  off." 

"It  is  not  Doctor  Saniel  who  directs  the  search 
of  the  police,  or  who  inspires  it,"  replied  Florentin, 
"His  opinion  does  not  produce  a  criminal,  while  the 
button  can — at  least  for  those  who  believe  in  the  strug- 
gle; and  between  the  two  the  police  will  not  hesitate. 

[  140  ] 


CONSCIENCE 

Already  the  newspapers  laugh  at  them  for  not  having 
discovered  the  assassin,  who  has  rejoined  all  the  others 
they  have  let  escape.  They  must  follow  the  track  they 
have  started  on,  and  this  track " 

He  lowered  his  voice : 

"It  will  lead  them  here." 

"To  do  that  they  must  pass  by  the  Avenue  de  Chchy, 
and  that  seems  unlikely." 

"It  is  the  possible  that  torments  me,  and  not  the  un- 
likely, and  you  cannot  but  recognize  that  what  I  fear  is 
possible.  I  was  at  Caffi^'s  the  day  of  the  crime.  I  lost 
there  a  button  torn  off  by  violence.  This  button  picked 
up  by  the  police  proves,  according  to  them,  the  crimi- 
nahty  of  the  one  who  lost  it.  They  will  find  that  I  am 
the  one " 

"They  will  not  find  you." 

"Let  us  admit  that  they  do  find  me.  How  should  I 
defend  myself?" 

"By  proving  that  you  were  not  in  the  Rue  Sainte- 
Anne  between  five  and  six  o'clock,  since  you  were 
here." 

"And  what  witnesses  will  prove  this  alibi?  I  have 
only  one — mamma.  What  is  the  testimony  of  a  mother 
worth  in  favor  of  her  son  in  such  circumstances?" 

"You  will  have  that  of  the  doctor,  affirming  that 
there  was  no  struggle,  and  consequently  no  button 
torn  off." 

"Affirming,  but  carrying  no  proof  to  support  his 
theory;  the  opinion  of  one  doctor,  which  the  opinion 
of  another  doctor  may  refute  and  destroy.  And  then, 
to  prove   that  there  was  no  struggle.  Doctor  Saniel 

[X4I] 


HECTOR  MALOT 

will  say  that  Cafi&6  was  surprised.  Who  could  surprise 
Caffi^?  To  open  Caffie's  door  when  the  clerk  was 
away,  it  was  necessary  to  ring  first,  and  then  to  knock 
three  times  in  a  peculiar  way.  No  stranger  could  know 
that,  and  who  could  know  it  better  than  I ?" 

Step  by  step  Phillis  defended  the  ground  against  her 
brother;  but  little  by  little  the  confidence  which  at  first 
sustained  her  weakened.  With  Saniel  she  was  brave. 
Between  her  brother  and  mother,  in  this  room  that  had 
witnessed  their  fears,  not  daring  to  speak  loud,  she  was 
downcast,  and  let  herself  be  overcome  by  their  anx- 
ieties. 

"Truly,"  she  said,  "it  seems  as  if  we  were  guilty  and 
not  innocent." 

"And  while  we  are  tormenting  ourselves,  the  crimi- 
nal, probably,  in  perfect  safety  laughs  at  the  police  in- 
vestigations; he  had  not  thought  of  this  button ;  chance 
throws  it  in  his  way.  Luck  is  for  him,  and  against  us 
— once  more." 

This  was  the  plaint  that  was  often  on  Florentin's  lips. 
Although  he  had  never  been  a  gambler — and  for  sufl5- 
cient  reason — in  his  eyes  everything  was  decided  by 
luck.  There  are  those  who  are  bom  under  a  lucky  star, 
others  under  an  unlucky  one.  There  are  those  who,  in 
the  battle  of  life,  receive  knocks  without  being  discour- 
aged, because  they  expect  something  the  next  day,  as 
there  are  those  who  become  discouraged  because  they 
expect  nothing,  and  know  by  experience  that  to-mor- 
row will  be  for  them  what  to-day  is,  what  yesterday 
was.    And  Florentin  was  one  of  these. 

"Why  did  I  not  stay  in  America?"  he  said. 
[142] 


CONSCIENCE 

"Because  you  were  too  unhappy,  my  poor  boy!" 
Madame  Cormier  said,  whose  maternal  heart  was 
moved  by  this  cry. 

"Am  I  happier  here,  or  shall  I  be  to-morrow?  What 
does  this  to-morrow,  full  of  uncertainty  and  dangers, 
hold  for  us?" 

"Why  do  you  insist  that  it  has  only  dangers?"  Phillis 
asked,  in  a  conciliating  and  caressing  tone. 

"You  always  expect  the  good." 

"At  least  i  hope  for  it,  and  do  not  admit  deliberately 
that  it  is  impossible.  I  do  not  say  that  life  is  always 
rose-colored,  but  neither  is  it  always  black.  I  believe  it 
is  like  the  seasons.  After  winter,  which  is  vile,  I  con- 
fess, come  the  spring,  summer,  and  autumn." 

"Well,  if  I  had  the  money  necessary  for  the  voyage, 
I  would  go  and  pass  the  end  of  the  winter  in  a  country 
where  it  would  be  less  disagreeable  than  here,  and, 
above  all,  less  dangerous  for  my  constitution." 

"You  do  not  say  that  seriously,  I  hope?"  cried 
Madame  Cormier. 

"On  the  contrary,  very  seriously." 

"We  are  hardly  reunited,  and  you  think  of  a  sepa- 
ration," she  said,  sadly. 

"  It  is  not  of  a  separation  that  Florentin  thinks,"  cried 
Phillis,  "but  of  a  flight." 

"And  why  not?" 

"Because  only  the  guilty  fly." 

"It  is  exactly  the  contrary.  The  intelligent  criminals 
stay,  and,  as  generally  they  are  resolute  men,  they  know 
beforehand  that  they  are  able  to  face  the  danger;  while 
the  innocent,  timid  like  myself,  or  the  unlucky,  loee 

[143] 


HECTOR  MALOT 

thqir  heads  and  fly,  because  they  know  beforehand,  also, 
that  if  a  danger  threatens  them,  it  will  crush  them. 
That  is  why  I  would  return  to  America  if  I  could  pay 
my  passage;  at  least  I  should  feel  easy  there." 

There  was  a  moment  of  silence,  during  which  each 
one  seemed  to  have  no  thought  but  to  finish  dinner. 

"  Granting  that  this  project  is  not  likely,"  Florentin 
said,  "I  have  another  idea." 

''Why  do  you  have  ideas?"  Phillis  asked. 

"I  wish  you  were  in  my  place;  we  should  see  if  you 
would  not  have  them." 

"I  assure  you  that  I  am  in  your  place,  and  that  your 
trouble  is  mine,  only  it  does  not  betray  itself  in  the 
same  manner.    But  what  is  your  idea  ?  " 

'Tt  is  to  find  Valerius  and  tell  him  all." 

"And  who  will  answer  to  us  for  Valerius's  discre- 
tion?" asked  Madame  Cormier.  "Would  it  not  be  the 
greatest  imprudence  that  you  could  commit  ?  One  can- 
not play  with  a  secret  of  this  importance." 

"Valerius  is  an  honest  man." 

"It  is  because  he  cannot  work  when  political,  or 
rather  patriotic,  affairs  go  wrong,  that  you  say  this." 

"And  why  not?  With  a  poor  man  who  lives  in  a 
small  way  by  his  work,  are  not  this  care  and  pride  in 
his  country  marks  of  an  honorable  heart?" 

"I  grant  the  honorable  heart,  but  it  is  another  reason 
for  being  prudent  with  him,"  Phillis  said.  "Precisely 
because  he  may  be  what  you  think,  reserve  is  necessary. 
You  tell  him  what  is  passed.  If  he  accepts  it  and  your 
innocence,  it  is  well;  he  will  not  betray  your  secret  vol- 
untarily nor  by  stupidity.     But  he  will  not  accept  it;  he 

[  -44  ] 


CONSCIENCE 

will  look  beyond.  He  will  suppose  that  you  wish  to  de- 
ceive him,  and  he  will  suspect  you.  In  that  case,  would 
he  not  go  and  tell  all  to  the  police  commissioner  of  our 
quarter  ?  As  for  me,  I  think  it  is  a  danger  that  it  would 
be  foolish  to  risk." 
"And,  according  to  you,  what  is  to  be  done?" 
"Nothing;  that  is,  wait,  since  there  are  a  thousand 
chances  against  one  for  our  uneasiness,  and  we  exag- 
gerate those  that  may  never  be  realized." 

"Well,  let  us  wait,"  he  said.  "Moreover,  I  like  that; 
at  the  least,  I  have  no  responsibilities.  What  can  hap- 
pen will  happen." 


TO  [  H5  ] 


CHAPTER  XIX 

THE  KNOCK  AT  THE  DOOR 

N  order  to  put  the  button  found  at  Caf- 
fie's  on  the  track  of  the  assassin,  it 
required  that  it  should  have  come  from 
a  Parisian  tailor,  or,  at  least,  a  French 
one,  and  that  the  trousers  had  not  been 
sold  by  a  ready-made  clothing-house, 
where  the  names  of  customers  are  not 
kept. 

The  task  of  the  police  was  therefore  difficult,  as  weak, 
also,  were  the  chances  of  success.  As  Saniel  had  said, 
it  was  like  looking  for  a  needle  in  a  bundle  of  hay,  to  go 
to  each  tailor  in  Paris. 

But  this  was  not  their  way  of  proceeding.  In  place  of 
trying  to  find  those  who  used  these  buttons,  they  looked 
for  those  who  made  them  or  sold  them,  and  suddenly, 
without  going  farther  than  the  directory,  they  found 
this  manufacturer:  "A.  Pelinotte,  manufacturer  of 
metal  buttons  for  trousers;  trade-mark,  A.P.,  crown 
and  cock;  Faubourg  du  Temple." 

At  first  this  manufacturer  was  not  disposed  to  an- 
swer questions  of  the  agent  who  went  to  see  him;  but 
when  he  began  to  understand  that  he  might  reap  some 
advantage  from  the  affair,  like  the  good  merchant  that 
he  was,  young  and  active,  he  put  his  books  and  clerks 

[146] 


CONSCIENCE 

at  his  disposition.  His  boast  was,  in  effect,  that  his 
buttons,  thanks  to  a  brass  bonnet  around  which  the 
thread  was  rolled  instead  of  passing  through  the  holes, 
never  cut  the  thread  and  could  not  be  broken.  When 
they  came  off  it  was  with  a  piece  of  the  cloth.  What 
better  justification  of  his  pretensions,  what  better  ad- 
vertisement than  his  button  torn  off  with  a  piece  of 
the  trousers  of  the  assassin  ?  The  affair  would  go  before 
the  assizes,  and  in  all  the  newspapers  there  would  be 
mention  of  the  "A.  P.  buttons." 

He  was  asked  for  his  customers'  names,  and  after  a 
few  days  the  search  began,  guided  by  a  list  so  exact  that 
useless  steps  were  spared. 

One  morning  a  detective  reached  the  Avenue  de 
Clichy,  and  found  the  tailor  Valerius  in  his  shop,  read- 
ing a  newspaper.  For  it  was  not  only  when  the  country 
was  in  danger  that  Valerius  had  a  passion  for  reading 
papers,  but  every  morning  and  evening. 

Nothing  that  was  published  in  the  papers  escaped 
him,  and  at  the  first  words  of  the  agent  he  under- 
stood immediately  about  what  he  was  to  be  ques- 
tioned. 

"It  is  concerning  the  affair  in  the  Rue  Sainte-Anne 
that  you  wish  this  information?"  he  said. 

"Frankly,  yes." 

"Well,  frankly  also,  I  do  not  know  if  the  secrets  of 
the  profession  permit  me  to  answer  you." 

The  agent,  who  was  by  no  means  stupid,  immediately 
understood  the  man's  character,  and  instead  of  yielding 
to  the  desire  to  laugh,  caused  by  this  reply  honestly 
made  by  this  good-natured  man,  whose  long,  black, 

[147] 


HECTOR  MALOT 

bushy  beard  and  bald  head  accentuated  his  gravity,  he 
yielded  to  the  necessity  of  the  occasion. 

"That  is  a  question  to  discuss." 

"Then  let  us  discuss  it.  A  customer,  confiding  in  my 
honesty  and  discretion,  gives  me  an  order  to  make  a 
pair  of  trousers;  he  pays  me  as  he  agreed,  without 
beating  me  down,  and  on  the  day  he  promised.  We 
are  loyal  to  each  other.  I  give  him  a  pair  of  good  trou- 
sers, honestly  made,  and  he  pays  me  with  good  money. 
We  are  even.  Have  I  the  right  afterward,  by  impru- 
dent words,  or  otherwise,  to  furnish  clews  against  him  ? 
The  case  is  a  delicate  one." 

"Do  you  place  the  interest  of  the  individual  above 
that  of  society?" 

"When  it  is  a  question  of  a  professional  secret,  yes. 
Where  should  we  be  if  the  lawyer,  the  notary,  the  doctor, 
the  confessor,  the  tailor,  could  accept  compromises  on 
this  point  of  doctrine?  It  would  be  anarchy,  simply, 
and  in  the  end  it  would  be  the  interest  of  society  that 
would  suffer." 

The  agent,  who  had  no  time  to  lose,  began  to  be  im- 
patient. 

"I  will  tell  you,"  he  said,  "that  the  tailor,  however 
important  his  profession  may  be,  is  not  placed  exactly 
as  the  doctor  or  confessor.  Have  you  not  a  book  in 
which  you  write  your  customers'  orders?" 

"Certainly." 

"So  that  if  you  persevere  in  a  theory,  pushing  it  to 
an  extreme,  I  need  only  to  go  to  the  commissioner  of  your 
quarter,  who,  in  virtue  of  the  power  of  the  law  conferred 
upon  him,  will  seize  your  books." 

[148] 


CONSCIENCE 

"That  would  be  by  violence,  and  my  responsibility 
would  be  at  an  end." 

"And  in  these  books  the  judge  would  see  to  whom 
you  have  furnished  trousers  of  this  stuff.  It  would 
only  remain  then  to  discover  in  whose  interest  you  have 
wished  to  escape  the  investigations  of  the  law." 

Saying  this,  he  took  from  his  pocket  a  small  box,  and 
taking  out  a  piece  of  paper,  he  took  from  it  a  button  to 
which  adhered  a  piece  of  navy  blue  stuff. 

Valerius,  who  was  not  in  the  least  moved  by  the  threat 
of  the  commissioner,  for  he  was  a  man  to  brave  martyr- 
dom, looked  at  the  box  curiously.  When  the  agent  dis- 
played the  button,  a  movement  of  great  surprise  es- 
caped him. 

"You  see,"  the  agent  exclaimed,  "that  you  know 
this  cloth!" 

"Will  you  permit  me  to  look  at  it?"  Valerius  asked. 

"Willingly,  but  on  condition  that  you  do  not  touch 
it;  it  is  precious." 

Valerius  took  the  box,  and  approaching  the  front  of 
the  shop,  looked  at  the  button  and  the  piece  of  cloth. 

"It  is  a  button  marked  'A.P.,'  as  you  see,  and  we 
know  that  you  use  these  buttons." 

"I  do  not  deny  it;  they  are  good  buttons,  and  I  give 
only  good  things  to  my  customers." 

Returning  the  box  to  the  agent,  he  took  a  large  book 
and  began  to  turn  over  the  leaves;  pieces  of  cloth  were 
pasted  on  the  pages,  and  at  the  side  were  several  lines 
of  large  handwriting.  Arriving  at  a  page  where  was  a 
piece  of  blue  cloth,  he  took  the  box  and  compared  this 
piece  with  that  of  the  button,  examining  it  by  daylight. 

[149] 


HECTOR  MALOT 

"Sir,"  he  said,  "I  am  going  to  tell  you  some  very 
serious  things." 

"I  am  listening." 

"We  hold  the  assassin  of  the  Rue  Sainte-Anne,  and 
it  is  I  who  will  give  you  the  means  of  discovering  him." 

"You  have  made  trousers  of  this  cloth?" 

"I  have  made  three  pairs;  but  there  is  only  one  pair 
that  can  interest  you,  that  of  the  assassin.  I  have  just 
told  you  that  the  secrets  of  the  profession  prevented  me 
from  replying  to  your  questions,  but  what  I  have  just 
seen  frees  my  conscience.  As  I  explained  to  you,  when 
I  make  a  pair  of  good  trousers  for  a  customer  who  pays 
me  in  good  money,  I  do  not  think  I  have  the  right  to 
reveal  the  affairs  of  my  client  to  any  one  in  the  world, 
even  to  the  law." 

"I  understand,"  interrupted  the  agent,  whose  impa- 
tience increased. 

"But  this  reserve  on  my  part  rests  on  reciprocity:  to 
a  good  customer,  a  good  tailor.  If  the  customer  is  not 
good  the  reciprocity  ceases,  or,  rather,  it  continues  on 
another  footing — that  of  war;  if  any  one  treats  me 
badly,  I  return  the  same.  The  trousers  to  which  this 
stuff  belongs" — he  showed  the  button — "I  made  for 
an  individual  whom  I  do  not  know,  and  who  presented 
himself  to  me  as  an  Alsacian,  which  I  believed  so  much 
more  easily,  because  he  spoke  with  a  strong  foreign  ac- 
cent. These  trousers — I  need  not  tell  you  how  careful  I 
was  with  them.  I  am  a  patriot,  sir.  He  agreed  to  pay 
for  them  on  delivery.  When  they  were  delivered,  the 
young  apprentice  who  took  them  had  the  weakness  to 
not  insist  upon  the  money.    I  went  to  him,  but  could 

[150] 


CONSCIENCE 

obtain  nothing;  he  would  pay  me  the  next  day,  and  so 
on.    Finally  he  disappeared,  leaving  no  address." 

"And  this  customer?" 

"I  will  give  you  his  name  without  the  slightest  hesi- 
tation. Fritzner,  not  an  Alsacian  as  I  believed,  but  a 
Prussian  to  a  certainty,  who  surely  struck  the  blow; 
his  disappearance  the  day  after  the  crime  is  the  proof 
of  it." 

"You  say  that  you  were  not  able  to  procure  his 
address?" 

"But  you,  who  have  other  means  at  your  disposal, 
Can  find  him.  He  is  twenty-seven  or  thirty  years  old, 
of  middle  height,  blue  eyes,  a  blond  beard,  and  a  com- 
plete blue  suit  of  this  cloth." 

The  agent  wrote  this  description  in  his  note-book  as 
the  tailor  gave  it  to  him. 

"If  he  has  not  left  Paris  with  these  stolen  thirty-five 
thousand  francs,  we  shall  find  him,  and  the  thanks  will 
be  yours,"  he  said. 

"I  am  happy  to  be  able  to  do  anything  for  you." 

The  agent  was  going,  but  he  thought  better  of  it. 

"You  said  that  you  had  made  three  suits  of  this 
cloth?" 

"Yes,  but  there  is  only  this  Fritzner  who  counts. 
The  two  others  are  honest  men,  well  known  in  the  quar- 
ter, and  they  paid  me  honestly." 

"Since  they  have  no  cause  for  alarm,  you  need  have 
no  scruples  in  naming  them.  It  is  not  in  the  name  of 
justice  that  I  ask  their  names,  but  for  myself.  They 
will  look  well  in  my  report  and  will  prove  that  I  pushed 
my  investigations  thoroughly." 

[151] 


HECTOR  MALOT 

"One  is  a  merchant  in  the  Rue  Truffant,  and  is 
called  Monsieur  Blanchet;  the  other  is  a  young  man 
just  arrived  from  America,  and  his  name  is  Monsieur 
Florentin  Cormier." 

"You  say  Florentin  Cormier?"  the  agent  asked,  who 
remembered  this  name  was  that  of  one  who  had  seen 
Caffie  on  the  day  of  the  crime.    "Do  you  know  him?" 

"Not  exactly;  it  is  the  first  time  that  I  have  made 
clothes  for  him.  But  I  know  his  mother  and  sister, 
who  have  lived  in  the  Rue  des  Moines  five  or  six  years 
at  least;  good,  honest  people,  who  work  hard  and  have 
no  debts." 

The  next  morning  about  ten  o'clock,  a  short  time 
after  Phillis's  departure,  Florentin,  who  was  reading 
the  newspaper  in  the  dining-room,  while  his  mother  pre- 
pared the  breakfast,  heard  stealthy  steps  that  stopped 
on  the  landing  before  their  door.  His  ear  was  too  fa- 
miliar with  the  ordinary  sounds  in  the  house  to  be  de- 
ceived; there  was  in  these  steps  a  hesitation  or  a  pre- 
caution which  evidently  betrayed  a  stranger,  and  with 
the  few  connections  they  had,  a  stranger  was  surely  an 
enemy — the  one  whom  he  expected. 

A  ring  of  the  doorbell,  given  by  a  firm  hand,  made 
him  jump  from  his  chair.  He  did  not  hesitate ;  slowly, 
and  with  an  air  of  indifference,  he  opened  the  door. 

He  saw  before  him  a  man  of  about  forty  years,  with 
a  polite  and  shrewd  face,  dressed  in  a  short  coat,  and 
wearing  a  flat  hat. 

"Monsieur  Florentin  Cormier?" 

"I  am  he." 

And  he  asked  him  to  come  in. 

[152] 


CONSCIENCE 

"The  judge  desires  to  see  you  at  his  office." 

Madame  Cormier  came  from  the  kitchen  in  time  to 
hear  these  few  words,  and  if  Florentin  had  not  motioned 
to  her  to  be  silent,  she  would  have  betrayed  herself. 
The  words  on  her  lips  were : 

"You  came  to  arrest  my  son!"  They  would  have 
escaped  her,  but  she  crushed  them  back. 

"And  can  you  tell  me  for  what  affair  the  judge  sum- 
mons me?"  Florentin  asked,  steadying  his  voice. 

"For  the  Caffi6  affair." 

"And  at  what  hour  should  I  present  myself  before 
the  judge?" 

"Immediately." 

"But  my  son  has  not  breakfasted!"  Madame  Cor- 
mier exclaimed.  "At  least,  take  something  before  going, 
my  dear  child." 

"It  is  not  worth  while." 

He  made  a  sign  to  her  that  she  should  not  insist. 
His  throat  was  too  tight  to  swallow  a  piece  of  bread, 
and  it  was  important  that  he  should  not  betray  his  emo- 
tion before  this  agent. 

"I  am  ready,"  he  said. 

Going  to  his  mother  he  embraced  her,  but  lightly, 
without  effusion,  as  if  he  were  only  to  be  absent  a  short 
time. 

"By-and-by." 

She  was  distracted;  but,  understanding  that  she 
would  compromise  her  son  if  she  yielded  to  her  feel- 
ings, she  controlled  herself. 


[IS3] 


GHAPTER  XX 

A  TIGHTENING  CHAIN 

■S  it  was  a  part  that  he  played,  Flor- 
entin  said  to  himself  that  he  would 
play  it  to  the  best  of  his  abihty  in  en- 
tering the  skin  of  the  person  he  wished 
to  be,  and  this  part  was  that  of  a  wit- 
ness. 

He  had  been  Cafi5e's  clerk;  the 
justice  would  interrogate  him  about 
his  old  employer,  and  nothing  would  be  more  natural. 
It  was  that  only,  and  nothing  but  that,  which  he  could 
admit;  consequently,  he  should  interest  himself  in  the 
police  investigations,  and  have  the  curiosity  to  learn 
how  they  stood. 

"Have  you  advanced  far  in  the  CafBe  affair?"  he 
asked  the  agent  as  they  walked  along. 

"I  do  not  know,"  the  agent  answered,  who  thought 
it  prudent  to  be  reserved.  "I  know  nothing  more  than 
the  newspapers  tell." 

On  leaving  his  mother's  house,  Florentin  observed  on 
the  other  side  of  the  street  a  man  who  appeared  to  be  sta- 
tioned there ;  at  the  end  of  several  minutes,  on  turning  a 
comer,  he  saw  that  this  man  followed  them  at  a  certain  dis- 
tance. Then  it  was  not  a  simple  appearance  before  the 
judge,  for  such  precautions  are  not  taken  with  a  witness. 

[154] 


CONSCIENCE 

When  they  reached  the  Place  Clichy,  the  agent  asked 
him  if  he  would  take  a  carriage,  but  he  declined.  What 
good  was  it  ?    It  was  a  useless  expense. 

Then  he  saw  the  agent  raise  his  hat,  as  if  bowing  to 
some  one,  but  this  bow  was  certainly  not  made  to  any 
one;  and  immediately,  the  man  who  had  followed 
them  approached.  The  raising  of  the  hat  was  a  signal. 
As  from  the  deserted  quarters  of  the  Batignolles  they 
entered  the  crowd,  they  feared  he  might  try  to  escape. 
The  character  of  the  arrest  became  accentuated. 

After  the  presentiments  and  fears  that  had  tormented 
him  during  the  last  few  days  this  did  not  astonish  him, 
but  since  they  took  these  precautions  with  him,  all  was 
not  yet  decided.  He  must,  then,  defend  himself  to  the 
utmost.  Distracted  before  the  danger  came,  he  felt  less 
weak  now  that  he  was  in  it. 

On  arriving  at  the  Palais  de  Justice  he  was  intro- 
duced immediately  into  the  judge's  office.  But  he  did 
not  attend  to  him  at  once ;  he  was  questioning  a  woman, 
and  Florentin  examined  him  by  stealth.  He  saw  a  man 
of  elegant  and  easy  figure,  still  young,  with  nothing  sol- 
emn or  imposing  about  him,  having  more  the  air  of  a 
boulevardier  or  of  a  sportsman  than  of  a  magistrate. 

While  continuing  his  questioning,  he  also  examined 
Florentin,  but  with  a  rapid  glance,  without  persistence, 
carelessly,  and  simply  because  his  eyes  fell  upon  him. 
Before  a  table  a  clerk  was  writing,  and  near  the  door 
two  policemen  waited,  with  the  weary,  empty  faces  of 
men  whose  minds  are  elsewhere. 

Soon  the  judge  turned  his  head  toward  them. 

"You  may  take  away  the  accused." 
[155] 


HECTOR  MALOT 

Then,  immediately  addressing  Florentin,  he  asked 
him  his  name,  his  Christian  names,  and  his  residence. 

"You  have  been  the  clerk  of  the  agent  of  affairs, 
Caffi6.    Why  did  you  leave  him?" 

"  Because  my  work  was  too  heavy." 

"You  are  afraid  of  work?" 

"No,  when  it  is  not  too  hard;  it  was  at  his  office, 
and  left  me  no  time  to  work  for  myself.  I  was  obliged 
to  reach  his  office  at  eight  o'clock  in  the  morning, 
breakfast  there,  and  did  not  leave  until  seven  to  dine 
with  my  mother  at  the  BatignoUes.  I  had  an  hour  and 
a  half  for  that;  at  half -past  eight  I  had  to  return,  and 
stay  until  ten  or  half -past.  In  accepting  this  position  I 
believed  that  I  should  be  able  to  finish  my  education,  in- 
terrupted by  the  death  of  my  father,  and  to  study  law 
and  become  something  better  than  a  miserable  clerk  of  a 
business  man.  It  was  impossible  with  Monsieur  Caffie, 
so  I  left  him,  and  this  was  the  only  reason  why  we  sep- 
arated." 

"Where  have  you  been  since?" 

This  was  a  delicate  question,  and  one  that  Florentin 
dreaded,  for  it  might  raise  prejudices  that  nothing 
would  destroy.  However,  he  must  reply,  for  what  he 
would  not  tell  himself  others  would  reveal;  an  investi- 
gation on  this  point  was  too  easy. 

"With  another  business  man.  Monsieur  Savoureux, 
Rue  de  la  Victoire,  where  I  was  not  obliged  to  work  in 
the  evening.  I  stayed  there  about  three  months,  and 
then  went  to  America." 

"Why?" 

"Because,  when  I  began  to  study  seriously,  I  found 
[156] 


CONSCIENCE 

that  my  studies  had  been  neglected  too  long  to  make  it 
possible  for  me  to  take  them  up  again.  I  had  forgotten 
nearly  all  I  had  learned.  I  should,  without  doubt,  fail 
in  my  examination,  and  I  should  only  begin  the  law 
too  late.  I  left  France  for  America,  where  I  hoped  to 
find  a  good  situation." 

"How  long  since  your  return?" 

"Three  weeks." 

"And  you  went  to  see  Caffi^?" 

"Yes." 

"What  for?" 

"To  ask  him  for  a  recommendation  to  replace  the 
one  he  gave  me,  which  I  had  lost." 

"It  was  the  day  of  the  crime?" 

"Yes." 

"At  what  time?" 

"I  reached  his  house  about  a  quarter  to  three,  and  I 
left  about  half -past  three." 

"Did  he  give  you  the  certificate  for  which  you 
asked?" 

"Yes;  here  it  is." 

And,  taking  it  from  his  pocket,  he  presented  it  to  the 
judge.  It  was  a  paper  saying  that,  during  the  time  that 
M.  Florentin  Cormier  was  his  clerk,  Caffie  was  entirely 
satisfied  with  him ;  with  his  work,  as  with  his  accuracy 
and  probity. 

"And  you  did  not  return  to  him  during  the  even- 
ing?" the  judge  asked. 

"Why  should  I  return?  I  had  obtained  what  I 
desired." 

"Well,  did  you  or  did  you  not  return?" 
[157] 


HECTOR  MALOT 

"I  did  not  return  to  him." 

"Do  you  remember  what  you  did  on  leaving  Caffi^'s 
house?" 

If  Florentin  had  indulged  in  the  smallest  illusion 
about  his  appearance  before  the  judge,  the  manner  of 
conducting  the  interview  would  have  destroyed  it.  It 
was  not  a  witness  who  was  being  questioned,  it  was  a 
culprit.  He  had  not  to  enlighten  the  justice,  he  had  to 
defend  himself. 

"Perfectly,"  he  said.  "It  is  not  so  long  ago.  On 
leaving  the  Rue  Sainte-Anne,  as  I  had  nothing  to  do,  I 
went  down  to  the  quays,  and  looked  at  the  old  books 
from  the  Pont  Royale  to  the  Institute;  but  at  this  mo- 
ment a  heavy  shower  came  on,  and  I  returned  to  the 
BatignoUes,  where  I  remained  with  my  mother." 

"What  time  was  it  when  you  reached  your  mother's 
house?" 

"A  few  minutes  after  five." 

"Can  you  not  say  exactly?" 

"About  a  quarter  past  five,  a  few  minutes  more  or 
less." 

"And  you  did  not  go  out  again?" 

"No." 

"Did  any  one  call  at  your  mother's  after  you  arrived 
there?" 

"No  one.  My  sister  came  in  at  seven  o'clock,  as 
usual,  when  she  returned  from  her  lesson." 

"Before  you  went  up  to  your  rooms  did  you  speak 
with  any  of  the  other  lodgers?" 

"No." 

There  was  a  pause,  and  Florentin  felt  the  judge's 
[158] 


CONSCIENCE 

eyes  fixed  on  him  with  an  aggravating  persistency.  It 
seemed  as  if  this  look,  which  enveloped  him  from  head 
to  foot,  wished  to  penetrate  his  inmost  thoughts. 

"Another  thing,"  said  the  judge.  "You  did  not  lose 
a  trousers'  button  while  you  were  with  Caffie?" 

Florentin  expected  this  question,  and  for  some  time 
he  had  considered  what  answer  he  should  make  to  it. 
To  deny  was  impossible.  It  would  be  easy  to  convict 
him  of  a  fib,  for  the  fact  of  the  question  being  asked  was 
sufficient  to  say  there  was  proof  that  the  button  was 
his.  He  must,  then,  confess  the  truth,  grave  as  it  might 
be. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "and  this  is  how " 

He  related  in  detail  the  story  of  the  bundle  of  papers 
placed  on  the  highest  shelf  of  the  cases,  his  slipping  on 
the  ladder,  and  the  loss  of  the  button,  which  he  did  not 
discover  until  he  was  in  the  street. 

The  judge  opened  a  drawer  and  took  from  it  a  small 
box,  from  which  he  took  a  button  that  he  handed  to 
Florentin. 

"Is  that  it?"  he  asked. 

Florentin  looked  at  it. 

"It  is  difficult  for  me  to  answer,"  he  said,  finally; 
"  one  button  resembles  another." 

"Not  always." 

"In  that  case,  it  would  be  necessary  for  me  to  have 
observed  the  form  of  the  one  I  lost,  and  I  gave  no 
attention  to  it.  It  seems  to  me  that  no  one  knows  ex- 
actly how,  or  of  what,  the  buttons  are  made  that  they 
wear." 

The  judge  examined  him  anew. 
[159] 


HECTOR  MALOT 

"But  are  not  the  trousers  that  you  wear  to-day  the 
same  from  which  this  button  was  torn?" 

"It  is  the  pair  I  wore  the  day  I  called  on  Monsieur 
Caffi6." 

"Then  it  is  quite  easy  to  compare  the  button  that  I 
show  you  with  those  on  your  trousers,  and  your  answer 
becomes  easy." 

It  was  impossible  to  escape  this  verification. 

"Unbutton  your  vest,"  said  the  judge,  "and  make 
your  comparison  with  care — with  all  the  care  that  you 
think  wise.    The  question  has  some  importance." 

Florentin  felt  it  only  too  much,  the  importance  of 
this  question,  but  as  it  was  set  before  him,  he  could  not 
but  answer  frankly. 

He  unbuttoned  his  waistcoat,  and  compared  the 
button  with  his. 

"I  believe  that  it  is  really  the  button  that  I  lost,"  he 
said. 

Although  he  endeavored  not  to  betray  his  anguish,  he 
felt  that  his  voice  trembled,  and  that  it  had  a  hoarse 
sound.    Then  he  wished  to  explain  this  emotion. 

"This  is  a  truly  terrible  position  for  me,"  he  said. 

The  judge  did  not  reply. 

"  But  because  I  lost  a  button  at  Monsieur  Caifie's,  it 
does  not  follow  that  it  was  torn  off  in  a  struggle." 

"You  have  your  theory,  and  you  will  make  the  most 
of  it,  but  this  is  not  the  place.  I  have  only  one  more 
question  to  ask :  By  what  button  have  you  replaced  the 
one  you  lost?" 

"  By  the  first  one  I  came  across." 

"Who  sewed  it  on?" 

[i6o] 


CONSCIENCE 

"I  did." 

"Are  you  in  the  habit  of  sewing  on  your  buttons 
yourself?" 

Although  the  judge  did  not  press  this  question  by  his 
tone,  nor  by  the  form  in  which  he  made  it,  Florentin 
saw  the  strength  of  the  accusation  that  his  reply  would 
make  against  him. 

"Sometimes,"  he  said. 
.  "And   yet,   on   returning   home,    you   found   your 
mother,  you  told  me.    Was  there  any  reason  why  she 
could  not  sew  this  button  on  for  you?" 

"I  did  not  ask  her  to  do  it." 

"But  when  she  saw  you  sewing  it,  did  she  not  take 
the  needle  from  your  hands?" 

"She  did  not  see  me." 

"Why?" 

"  She  was  occupied  preparing  our  dinner." 

"That  is  sufficient." 

"I  was  in  the  entry  of  our  apartment,  where  I  have 
slept  since  my  return;  my  mother  was  in  the  kitchen." 

"Is  there  no  communication  between  the  kitchen  and 
the  entry?" 

"The  door  was  closed." 

A  flood  of  words  rushed  to  his  lips,  to  protest  against 
the  conclusions  which  seemed  to  follow  these  answers, 
but  he  kept  them  back.  He  saw  himself  caught  in  a 
net,  and  all  his  efforts  to  free  himself  only  bound  him 
more  strongly. 

As  he  was  asked  no  more  questions  it  seemed  to  him 
best  to  say  nothing,  and  he  was  silent  a  long  time,  of 
the  duration  of  which  he  was  only  vaguely  conscious. 
II  [i6i] 


HECTOR  MALOT 

The  judge  talked  in  a  low  tone,  the  recorder  wrote  rap- 
idly, and  he  heard  only  a  monotonous  murmur  that  in- 
terrupted the  scratching  of  a  pen  on  the  paper. 

"Your  testimony  will  now  be  read  to  you,"  the  judge 
said. 

He  wished  to  give  all  his  attention  to  this  reading, 
but  he  soon  lost  the  thread  of  it.  The  impression  it 
made  upon  him,  however,  was  that  it  faithfully  repro- 
duced all  that  he  had  said,  and  he  signed  it. 

"Now,"  said  the  judge,  "my  duty  obliges  me,  in 
presence  of  the  charges  which  emanate  from  your  tes- 
timony, to  deliver  against  you  a  manda  depot.^^ 

Florentin  received  this  blow  without  flinching. 

"I  know,"  he  said,  "that  all  the  protestations  I 
might  make  would  have  no  effect  at  this  moment;  I 
therefore  spare  you  them.  But  I  have  a  favor  to  ask  of 
you ;  it  is  to  permit  me  to  write  to  my  mother  and  sister 
the  news  of  my  arrest — they  love  me  tenderly.  Oh,  you 
shall  read  my  letter!" 

"You  may,  sir." 


(162  J 


CHAPTER  XXI 

'regarding  the  caefie  affair" 

''TER  the  departure  of  her  son  and  the 
detective,  Madame  Comiier  was  pros- 
trated. Her  son!  Her  Florentin !  The 
poor  child !  And  she  was  sunk  in  de- 
spair. 

Had  they  not  suffered  enough  ?  Was 
this  new  proof  necessary?  Why  had 
their  Hfe  been  so  unmercifully  cruel? 
Why  had  not  Dr.  Saniel  let  her  die?  At  least  she 
would  not  have  seen  this  last  catastrophe,  this  dis- 
grace; her  son  accused  of  assassination,  in  prison,  at 
the  assizes! 

Heretofore  when  she  had  yielded  to  her  feelings  and 
bewailed  their  sad  lot,  Phillis  was  at  hand  to  cheer  and 
caress  her;  but  now  she  was  alone  in  her  deserted 
apartment,  no  one  to  hear  her,  see  her,  nor  scold.  Why 
should  she  not  abandon  herself  to  tears  ?  She  wept  and 
trembled,  but  the  moment  arrived  when,  after  having 
reached  the  extreme  of  despair,  which  showed  her 
her  son  condemned  as  an  assassin,  and  executed,  she 
stopped  and  asked  herself  if  she  had  not  gone  too  far. 

He  would  return;  certainly  she  might  expect  him. 
And  she  waited  for  him  without  breakfasting;  he  would 
not  like  to  sit  down  to  the  table  all  alone,  the  poor  child. 

[163] 


HECTOR  MALOT 

Besides,  she  was  too  profoundly  overcome  to  eat.  She 
arranged  the  fire  with  care,  so  that  the  haricot  of  mut- 
ton would  keep  warm,  for  it  was  his  favorite  dish. 

Minutes  and  hours  passed  and  he  did  not  return. 
Her  anguish  came  back;  a  witness  would  not  be  re- 
tained so  long  by  the  judge.  Had  they  arrested  him? 
Then  what  would  become  of  him  ? 

She  fell  into  a  state  of  tears  and  despair,  and  longed 
for  Phillis.  Fortunately  she  would  not  be  late  to-day. 
Finally  a  quick,  light  step  was  heard  on  the  landing,  and 
as  soon  as  she  could,  Madame  Cormier  went  to  open 
the  door,  and  was  stunned  on  seeing  the  agitated  face 
of  her  daughter.  Evidently  PhilUs  was  surprised  by  the 
sudden  opening  of  the  door. 

"You  know  all,  then?"  Madame  Cormier  cried. 

Phillis  put  her  arms  about  her,  and  drew  her  into  the 
dining-room,  where  she  made  her  sit  down. 

"Be  calm,"  she  said.    "They  will  not  keep  him." 

"You  know  some  way?" 

"We  will  find  a  way.  I  promise  you  that  they  will 
not  keep  him." 

"You  are  sure?" 

"I  promise  you." 

"You  give  me  life.    But  how  did  you  know?" 

"He  wrote  to  me.  The  concierge  gave  me  his  letter, 
which  had  just  come." 

"What  does  he  say?" 

Madame  Cormier  took  the  letter  that  Philhs  handed 
her,  but  the  paper  shook  so  violently  in  her  trembling 
hand  that  she  could  not  read. 

"Read  it  to  me." 

[164] 


CONSCIENCE 

Phillis  took  it  and  read : 

"Dear  little  Sister:  After  listening  to  my  story,  the  judge, 
retains  me.    Soften  for  mamma  the  pain  of  this  blow.    Make  her 
understand  that  they  will  soon  acknowledge  the  falseness  of  this 
accusation ;  and,  on  your  part,  try  to  make  this  falseness  evident, 
while  on  mine,  I  will  work  to  prove  my  innocence. 

"Embrace  poor  mamma  for  me,  and  find  in  your  tenderness, 
strength,  and  love,  some  consolation  for  her;  mine  will  be  to  think 
that  you  are  near  her,  dear  little  beloved  sister. 

"Florentin.** 

"And  it  is  this  honest  boy  that  they  accuse  of  assas- 
sination!" cried  Madame  Cormier,  beginning  to  weep. 

It  required  several  minutes  for  Phillis  to  quiet  her  a 
little. 

"We  must  think  of  him,  mamma;  we  must  not  give 
up." 

"You  are  going  to  do  something,  are  you  not,  my 
little  Phillis?" 

"  I  am  going  to  find  Doctor  Saniel." 

"He  is  a  doctor,  not  a  lawyer." 

"It  is  exactly  as  a  doctor  that  he  can  save  Florentin. 
He  knows  that  Caffi^  was  killed  without  a  struggle  be- 
tween him  and  the  assassin;  consequently  without  the 
wrenching  off  of  a  button.  He  will  say  it  and  prove  it 
to  the  judge,  and  Florentin's  innocence  is  evident.  I 
am  going  to  see  him." 

"I  beg  of  you,  do  not  leave  me  alone  too  long." 

"I  will  come  back  immediately." 

Phillis  ran  from  the  Batignolles  to  the  Rue  Louis-le- 
Grand.  In  answer  to  her  ring,  Joseph,  who  had  re- 
turned to  his  place  in  the  anteroom,  opened  the  door, 

[165] 


HECTOR  MALOT 

'and  as  Saniel  was  alone,  she  went  immediately  to  his 
office. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  he  asked,  on  seeing  her  agi- 
tation. 

"  My  brother  is  arrested." 

"Ah!    The  poor  boy!" 

What  he  had  said  to  her  on  explaining  that  this  ar- 
rest could  not  take  place  was  sincere;  he  believed  it, 
and  he  more  than  believed  it,  he  wished  it.  When  he 
decided  to  kill  Caffie  he  had  not  thought  that  the  law 
would  ever  discover  a  criminal;  it  would  be  a  crime  that 
would  remain  unpunished,  as  so  many  were,  and  no 
one  would  be  disturbed.  But  now  the  law  had  found 
and  arrested  one  who  was  the  brother  of  the  woman 
he  loved. 

"How  was  he  arrested?"  he  asked,  as  much  for  the 
sake  of  knowing  as  to  recover  himself. 

She  told  what  she  knew,  and  read  Florentin's  letter. 

"He  is  a  good  boy,  your  brother,"  he  said,  as  if  talk- 
ing to  himself. 

' '  You  will  save  him  ?  " 

"How  can  I?" 

This  cry  escaped  him  without  her  understanding  its 
weight;  without  her  divining  the  expression  of  anxious 
curiosity  in  his  glance. 

"To  whom  shall  I  address  myself,  if  not  to  you? 
Are  you  not  everything  to  me  ?  My  support,  my  guide, 
my  counsel,  my  God!" 

She  explained  what  she  wished  him  to  do.  Once 
more  an  exclamation  escaped  Saniel. 

"You  wish  me  to  go  to  the  judge — me?" 
[i66] 


CONSCIENCE 

"Who,  better  than  you,  can  explain  how  things 
happened?" 

Saniel,  who  had  recovered  from  his  first  feeling  of 
surprise,  did  not  flinch.  Evidently  she  spoke  with  en- 
tire honesty,  suspecting  nothing,  and  it  would  be  folly 
to  look  for  more  than  she  said. 

"But  I  cannot  present  myself  before  a  judge  in  such 
a  way,"  he  said.  "  It  is  he  who  sends  for  those  he  wants 
to  see." 

"Why  can  you  not  go  to  his  court,  since  you  know 
things  which  will  throw  light  upon  it?" 

"Is  it  truly  easy  to  go  before  this  court?  In  going 
before  it,  I  make  myself  the  defender  of  your  brother." 

"That  is  exactly  what  I  ask  of  you." 

"And  in  presenting  myself  as  his  defender,  I  take 
away  the  weight  of  my  deposition,  which  would  have 
more  authority  if  it  were  that  of  a  simple  witness." 

"But  when  will  you  be  asked  for  this  deposition? 
Think  of  Florentines  sufferings  during  this  time,  of 
mamma's,  and  of  mine.  He  may  lose  his  head;  he 
may  kill  himself.  His  spirit  is  not  strong,  nor  is  mam- 
ma's. How  will  they  bear  all  that  the  newspapers  will 
publish?" 

Saniel  hesitated  a  moment. 

"Well,  I  will  go,"  he  said.  "Not  this  evening,  it  is 
too  late,  but  to-morrow." 

"Oh,  dear  Victor!"  she  exclaimed,  pressing  him  in 
her  arms,  "I  knew  that  you  would  save  him.  We  will 
owe  you  his  life,  as  we  owe  you  mamma's,  as  I  owe 
you  happiness.  Am  I  not  right  to  say  you  are  my 
God?" 

[167I 


HECTOR  MALOT 

After  she  was  gone  he  had  a  moment  of  repentance  in 
which  he  regretted  this  weakness;  for  it  was  a  weakness, 
a  stupid  sentimentaHsm,  unworthy  of  a  sensible  man, 
who  should  not  permit  himself  to  be  thus  touched  and 
involved.  Why  should  he  go  and  invite  danger  when 
he  could  be  quiet,  without  any  one  giving  him  a  thought  ? 
Was  it  not  folly  ?  The  law  wanted  a  criminal.  Public 
curiosity  demanded  one.  Why  take  away  the  one  that 
they  had  ?  If  he  succeeded,  would  they  not  look  for  an- 
other? It  was  imprudence,  and,  to  use  the  true  word, 
madness.  Now  that  he  was  no  longer  under  the  influ- 
ence of  Phillis's  beautiful,  tearful  eyes,  he  would  not 
commit  this  imprudence.  All  the  evening  this  idea 
strengthened,  and  when  he  went  to  bed  his  resolution 
was  taken.    He  would  not  go  to  the  judge. 

But  on  awakening,  he  was  surprised  to  find  that  this 
resolution  of  the  evening  was  not  that  of  the  morning, 
and  that  this  dual  personality,  which  had  already  struck 
him,  asserted  itself  anew.  It  was  at  night  that  he  re- 
solved to  kill  Caffie,  and  he  committed  the  deed  in  the 
evening.  It  was  in  the  morning  that  he  had  aban- 
doned the  idea,  as  it  was  in  the  morning  that  he  revoked 
the  decision  made  the  previous  evening  not  to  go  to  the 
rescue  of  this  poor  boy.  Of  what  then,  was  the  will  of 
man  made,  undulating  like  the  sea,  and  variable  as  the 
wind,  that  he  had  the  folly  to  believe  his  was  firm? 

At  noon  he  went  to  the  Palais  de  Justice  and  sent  in 
his  card  to  the  judge,  on  which  he  wrote  these  words: 
"Regarding  the  Caffie  affair." 

He  was  received  almost  immediately,  and  briefly  ex- 
plained how,  according  to  his  opinion,  Caffie  was  killed 

ii68] 


CONSCIENCE 

quickly  and  suddenly  by  a  firm  and  skilful  hand,  that 
of  a  killer  by  profession. 

"That  is  the  conclusion  of  your  report,"  the  judge  said. 

"What  I  could  not  point  out  in  my  report,  as  I  did 
not  know  of  the  finding  of  the  button  and  the  opinion  it 
has  led  to,  is  that  there  was  no  struggle  between  the 
assassin  and  the  victim,  as  is  generally  supposed." 

And  medically  he  demonstrated  how  this  struggle 
was  impossible. 

The  judge  listened  attentively,  without  a  word,  with- 
out interruption. 

"Do  you  know  this  young  man?"  he  asked. 

"I  have  seen  him  only  once;  but  I  know  his  mother, 
who  was  my  patient,  and  it  is  at  her  instigation  that  I 
decided  to  make  this  explanation  to  you." 

"Without  doubt,  it  has  its  value,  but  I  must  tell  you 
that  it  tends  in  no  way  to  destroy  our  hypothesis." 

"But  if  it  has  no  foundation?" 

"I  must  tell  you  that  you  are  negative,  doctor,  and 
not  suggestive.  We  have  a  criminal  and  you  have  not. 
Do  you  see  one?" 

Saniel  thought  that  the  judge  looked  at  him  with  a 
disagreeable  persistency. 

"No,"  he  said,  sharply. 

Then  rising,  he  said,  more  calmly: 

"That  is  not  in  my  line." 

He  had  nothing  to  do  but  to  retire,  which  he  did; 
and  on  passing  through  the  vestibule  he  said  to  himself 
that  the  magistrate  was  right.  He  beHeved  that  he  held 
a  criminal.    Why  should  he  let  him  go  ? 

As  for  him,  he  had  done  what  he  could. 
[169] 


CHAPTER  XXII 

nougarede's  bride 

^ANIEL  passed  the  first  proofs  of  his  two 
concours  so  brilHantly  that  the  results 
of  either  were  not  doubtful.  In  de- 
livering his  thesis  for  the  agregation, 
he  commanded  the  admiration  of  his 
audience;  by  turns  aggressive,  severe, 
ironical,  eloquent,  he  reduced  his  ad- 
versary to  such  an  extremity  that,  over- 
whelmed, he  was  not  able  to  reply.  In  his  lecture  at  the 
hospital,  his  eloquence  and  his  clear  demonstration  con- 
vinced the  judges  who  were  opposed  to  him  that  he  was 
in  the  right. 

What  could  Caffie's  death  weigh,  placed  in  the  bal- 
ance with  these  results?  So  little  that  it  counted  for 
nothing,  and  would  have  held  no  place  in  his  thoughts 
if  it  had  not  been  mixed  in  his  mind  with  the  accusation 
that  would  send  Florentin  to  the  assizes. 

Cleared  of  this  fact,  the  death  of  the  old  man  rarely 
crossed  his  mind.  He  had  other  things  in  his  head, 
truly,  than  this  memory  which  brought  neither  regret 
nor  remorse;  and  it  was  not  at  this  moment,  when  he 
touched  the  end  at  which  he  aimed,  that  he  would  em- 
barrass himself,  or  sadden  his  triumph,  with  Cafhe. 
A  little  before  the  expiration  of  the  two  months,  dur- 
[170] 


CONSCIENCE 

ing  which  time  the  posie  restante  retained  the  letters 
containing  the  thirty  thousand  francs,  he  called  for 
them,  and  readdressed  and  mailed  them  to  other  post- 
offices. 

What  did  he  want  of  this  money,  which  was,  in  re- 
ality, a  nuisance?  His  habits  remained  the  same,  ex- 
cept that  he  no  longer  struggled  with  his  creditors,  and 
paid  cash  for  everything.  He  had  no  desire  to  make 
any  change  in  his  former  mode  of  living;  his  ambition 
was  otherwise  and  higher  than  in  the  small  satisfac- 
tions, very  small  for  him,  that  money  gives. 

Days  passed  without  a  thought  of  Caffie,  except  in 
connection  with  Florentin.  But  Florentin,  and  above 
all,  Phillis,  reminded  him  that  the  comfort  he  enjoyed 
he  owed  to  Caffie's  death,  and  he  was  troubled  accord- 
ingly. 

He  did  not  believe  that  the  investigations  of  the  law 
would  reach  him  now;  everything  conspired  to  confirm 
him  in  his  scrutiny.  That  which  he  arranged  so  labori- 
ously had  succeeded  according  to  his  wish,  and  the  only 
imprudence  that  he  had  committed,  in  a  moment  of 
aberration,  seemed  not  to  have  been  observed;  no  one 
had  noticed  his  presence  in  the  ca]6  opposite  Caffie's 
house,  and  no  one  was  astonished  at  his  pertinacity  in 
remaining  there  at  an  hour  so  unusual. 

But  it  was  not  enough  that  he  was  safe;  he  must 
prevent  Florentin  from  being  unjustly  condemned  for 
a  crime  of  which  he  was  innocent.  It  was  a  great  deal 
that  he  should  be  imprisoned,  that  his  sister  should  be 
in  despair,  and  his  mother  ill  from  chagrin;  but  if  he 
should  be  sent  to  the  scaffold  or  to  the  galleys,  it  would 

[171J 


HECTOR  MALOT 

be  too  much.    In  itself  the  death  of  Caffi6  was  a  small 
thing;  it  became  atrocious  if  it  led  to  such  an  ending. 

He  did  not  wish  this  to  happen,  and  he  would  do  ev- 
erything not  only  to  prevent  the  condemnation,  but  to 
shorten  the  imprisonment. 

It  was  this  sentiment  that  he  obeyed  in  going  to  see 
the  judge;  but  the  manner  in  which  he  was  received, 
showing  him  that  the  law  was  not  disposed  to  let  its 
hypothesis  be  changed  by  a  simple  medical  demon- 
stration, threw  him  into  a  state  of  uneasiness  and  per- 
plexity. 

Without  doubt,  any  one  else  in  his  place  would  have 
let  things  take  their  course,  and  since  the  law  had  a 
criminal  with  which  it  contented  itself,  would  have  done 
nothing  to  release  him.  While  it  followed  its  hypoth- 
esis to  prove  the  criminality  of  the  one  it  held,  it  would 
not  look  elsewhere;  when  it  had  condemned  him,  all 
would  be  finished;  the  Caffi6  affair  would  be  buried,  as 
Caffie  himself  was  buried;  silence  and  oblivion  would 
give  him  security.  The  crime  punished,  the  conscience 
of  the  public  satisfied,  it  would  ask  for  no  more,  not 
even  to  know  if  the  debt  was  paid  by  the  one  who  really 
owed  it;  it  was  paid,  and  that  was  sufficient.  But  he 
was  not  "any  one  else,"  and  if  he  found  the  death  of 
this  old  scamp  legitimate,  it  was  on  the  condition  that 
Florentin  did  not  pay  for  it,  from  whom  he  had  not 
profited. 

Florentin  must  be  released  as  soon  as  possible,  and  it 
was  his  duty  to  interest  himself  in  his  behalf — his  im- 
perative duty  not  only  toward  Phillis,  but  toward  him- 
self. 

[172] 


CONSCIENCE 

He  told  Phillis  that  until  Florentin  came  before  the 
jury,  he  could  do  nothing,  or  almost  nothing.  When 
the  time  came,  he  would  assert  his  authority,  and 
speaking  in  the  name  of  science,  he  would  prove  to  the 
jury  that  the  story  of  the  button  was  an  invention  of 
the  police,  who  were  pushed  to  extremes,  and  would  not 
bear  examination ;  but  until  then  the  poor  boy  remained 
at  Mazas,  and  however  assured  one  might  be  at  this 
moment  of  an  acquittal,  an  immediate  ordonnance  de 
non-lieu  was  of  more  value,  if  it  could  be  obtained. 

For  this  the  intervention  and  direction  of  a  doctor 
were  of  little  use ;  it  required  that  of  an  advocate. 

Whom  should  he  have?  Phillis  would  have  liked  to 
apply  to  the  most  illustrious,  to  him  who,  by  his  talent, 
authority,  and  success,  would  win  all  his  cases.  But 
Saniel  explained  to  her  that  workers  of  miracles  were 
probably  as  difficult  to  find  at  the  bar  as  in  the  medical 
profession,  and  that,  if  they  did  exist,  they  would  expect 
a  large  fee.  To  tell  the  truth,  he  would  have  willingly 
given  the  thirty  thousand  francs  in  the  poste  restante,  or 
a  large  part  of  this  sum,  to  give  Florentin  his  liberty; 
but  it  would  be  imprudent  to  take  out  the  bills  at  this 
moment,  and  he  could  not  declare  that  he  had  thirty 
thousand  francs,  or  even  ten  thousand.  He  decided 
with  Phillis  to  consult  Brigard. 

On  a  Wednesday  he  went  to  the  parlor  in  the  Rue 
Vaugirard,  where  he  had  not  been  since  his  experiment 
with  Glady.  As  usual,  he  was  received  affectionately  by 
Crozat,  who  scolded  him  for  coming  so  rarely,  and  as 
usual  also,  in  order  not  to  disturb  the  discussion  that 
was  going  on,  he  remained  standing  near  the  door. 

[173] 


HECTOR  MALOT 

This  evening  the  theme  of  the  discourse  was  a  phrase 
of  Chateaubriand's:  "The  tiger  kills  and  sleeps;  man 
kills  and  is  sleepless,"  On  listening  to  the  discussion, 
Saniel  said  to  himself  that  it  was  truly  a  pity  not  to  be 
able  to  reply  to  all  this  rhetoric  by  a  simple  fact  of  per- 
sonal experience.  He  had  never  slept  so  well,  so  tran- 
quilly, as  since  Caffie's  death,  which  relieved  him  from 
all  the  cares  that  in  these  last  months  had  tormented 
and  broken  his  sleep  so  much. 

At  the  end,  Brigard  concluded  the  discussion  on 
saying  that  nothing  better  proved  the  power  of  the  hu- 
man conscience  than  this  difference  between  man  and 
beast. 

When  they  had  all  gone  but  Brigard,  and  Saniel  was 
alone  with  him  and  Crozat,  he  stated  his  desire. 

"But  is  it  the  Caffie  affair?" 

"Exactly." 

And  he  explained  in  detail  the  interest  he  felt  in  Flor- 
entin,  the  son  of  one  of  his  patients,  and  also  the  situ- 
ation of  this  patient. 

Brigard  strongly  recommended  NougarMe,  and  de- 
scribed his  recent  successes  before  a  jury.  Crozat 
concurred  with  Brigard,  and  advised  Saniel  to  see  Nou- 
garede  the  day  after  to-morrow. 

"In  the  morning,  because  after  the  Palais,  Nouga- 
rede  will  be  at  his  wedding,  which,  as  you  know,  pre- 
vents him  from  coming  here  this  evening." 

"What!  Nougarede  married?"  exclaimed  Saniel, 
surprised  that  the  favorite  disciple  gave  this  lie  to  the 
doctrine  and  examples  of  his  master. 

"My  God,  yes!  We  must  not  be  too  hard  on  him. 
[174] 


CONSCIENCE 

He  submits  to  the  fate  of  a  special  environment.  With- 
out our  knowledge,  Nougarede,  we  may  say  it  now,  and 
ought  to  say  it,  was  the  happy  lover  of  a  charming 
young  person,  the  daughter  of  one  of  our  most  distin- 
guished actresses,  who  was  brought  up  in  a  fashionable 
convent.  You  see  the  situation.  The  result  of  this 
liaison  was  a  child,  a  delicious  little  boy.  It  seemed 
quite  natural  that  they  should  live  en  union  libre,  since 
they  loved  each  other,  and  not  weaken  by  legaHties  the 
strength  of  those  that  attached  them  to  this  child.  But 
the  mother  is  an  actress,  as  I  have  told  you,  and  wished 
her  daughter  to  receive  all  the  sacraments  that  the  law 
and  the  church  can  confer.  She  managed  so  well  that 
poor  Nougarede  yielded.  He  goes  to  the  mayor,  to  the 
church;  he  legitimizes  the  child,  and  he  even  accepts 
a  dot  of  two  hundred  thousand  francs.  I  pity  him,  the 
unfortunate  man!  But  I  confess  that  I  have  the  weak- 
ness to  not  condemn  him  as  he  would  deserve  if  he  mar- 
ried in  any  other  way." 

Saniel  was  a  little  surprised  at  these  points  of  resem- 
blance with  the  charming  young  person  that  Caffi^  had 
proposed  to  him.  At  the  least,  it  was  curious;  but  if  it 
were  the  same  woman,  he  was  not  vexed  to  see  that 
Nougarede  had  been  less  difficult  than  himself. 


ri7S] 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

STUNNING  NEWS 

going  to  see  Nougarede,  Saniel 
vaguely  fancied  the  lawyer  would  tell 
him  that  an  acquittal  was  certain  if 
Florentin  passed  to  the  assizes,  and 
even  that  an  ordonnance  de  non-lieu 
was  probable.  But  his  hope  was  not 
realized. 

"The  adventure  of  the  button  for 
you  or  me  would  not  have  the  same  gravity  as  for  this 
boy;  we  have  no  antecedents  on  which  presumptions 
might  be  established,  but  he  has.  The  forty-five  francs 
which  constitute  an  embezzlement  for  a  salaried  man 
will  be,  certainly,  a  starting-point  for  the  accusation;  one 
commences  by  a  weakness  and  finishes  by  a  crime.  Do 
you  not  hear  the  advocate-general?  He  will  begin  by 
presenting  the  portrait  of  the  honest,  laborious,  exact, 
scrupulous  clerk,  content  with  a  Httle,  and  getting  sat- 
isfaction from  his  duties  accomplished;  then,  in  oppo- 
sition, he  will  pass  to  the  clerk  of  to-day,  as  irregular 
in  his  work  as  in  his  conduct,  full  of  desires,  in  a  hurry 
to  enjoy,  discontented  with  everything  and  everybody, 
with  others  as  with  himself.  And  he  will  go  on  to  speak 
of  the  embezzlement  of  the  forty-five  francs  as  the  be- 
ginning of  the  crimes  that  led  to  the  assassination.   You 

[176] 


CONSCIENCE 

may  be  sure  if  the  affair  goes  to  the  assizes  that  you 
will  hear  these  words  and  more,  and  I  assure  you  that 
it  will  be  difficult  for  us  to  destroy  the  impression  that 
he  will  produce  on  the  jury.  But  I  hope  we  shall  suc- 
ceed." 

He  had  to  give  up  the  idea  of  obtaining  the  ordon- 
nance  de  non-lieu,  and  to  tell  himself  that  the  affaire 
would  come  before  the  assizes;  but  it  does  not  follow 
that  one  is  condemned  for  what  one  is  accused  of,  and 
Saniel  persisted  in  believing  that  Florentin  would  not 
be.  Assuredly,  the  prison  was  hard  for  the  poor  boy, 
and  the  trial  before  the  jury,  with  all  the  ignominy  that 
necessarily  accompanies  it,  would  be  harder  yet.  But, 
after  all,  it  would  all  disappear  in  the  joy  of  acquittal; 
when  that  time  came,  there  would  be  found,  surely, 
some  ingenious  idea,  sympathy,  effective  support,  to 
pay  him  for  all  that  he  would  have  suffered.  Certainly, 
things  would  come  to  pass  thus,  and  the  acquittal 
would  be  carried  with  a  high  hand. 

He  said  this  to  himself  again  and  again,  and  from  the 
day  when  he  put  the  affair  in  Nougarede's  hands,  he 
often  went  to  see  him,  to  hear  him  repeat  it. 

"He  cannot  be  condemned,  can  he?" 

"One  may  always  be  condemned,  even  when  one  u 
innocent;  as  one  may  die  at  any  time,  you  know  that, 
even  with  excellent  health." 

In  one  of  these  visits  he  met  Madame  Nougar^de,  who 
had  then  been  several  days  married,  and  on  recognizing 
in  her  the  young  virgin  with  a  child,  of  whom  Caffi^ 
showed  him  the  portrait,  he  was  strengthened  in  his 
idea  that  conscience,  such  as  it  was  understood,  was 
13  [177] 


HECTOR  MALOT 

decidedly  a  strange  weighing-machine,  which  might  be 
made  to  say  whatever  one  chose.  Of  what  good  were 
these  hypocrisies,  and  whom  did  they  deceive  ? 

Although  he  had  told  Phillis  repeatedly  that  an 
acquittal  was  certain,  and  that  he  had  promised  her  he 
would  do  all  he  could  for  Florentin — which  he  really 
did — ^she  did  not  give  entirely  into  his  hands,  or  into 
Nougarede's,  the  task  of  defending  her  brother,  but 
worked  with  them  in  his  defence. 

Nougarede  believed  that  the  delay  in  bringing  the 
affair  before  the  assizes  was  caused  by  the  attempts 
to  learn  if,  during  his  residence  in  America,  Florentin 
had  not  worked  in  some  large  meat-shop  or  sheepfold, 
where  he  would  have  learned  to  use  a  butcher  knife, 
which  was  the  chief  point  for  the  accusation.  Phillis 
wrote  to  the  various  towns  where  Florentin  had  lived, 
and  to  tell  the  truth,  he  had  worked  at  La  Plata  for  six 
months  as  accountant  in  a  large  sheepfold,  but  never 
slaughtered  the  sheep. 

When  she  received  a  letter,  she  carried  it  immediately 
to  Saniel,  and  then  to  Nougarede;  and,  at  the  same 
time,  on  all  sides,  in  Paris,  among  those  who  had  held 
relations  with  her  brother,  she  sought  for  testimony 
that  should  prove  co  the  jury  that  he  could  not  be  the 
man  that  his  accusers  believed  him.  It  was  thus  that, 
all  alone,  ^^nthout  other  means  of  action  than  those 
which  she  found  in  her  sisterly  tenderness  and  brav- 
ery, she  organized  an  investigation  parallel  to  that  of 
the  law,  which,  on  the  day  of  judgment,  would  carry 
a  certain  weight,  it  seemed,  with  the  conviction  of  the 
jury,  showing  them  what  had  been  the  true  life  of  this 

[178] 


eONSCIENCE 

irregular  and  debauched  man,  capable  of  anything  to 
glut  his  appetite  and  satisfy  his  desires. 

Each  time  that  she  obtained  a  favorable  deposition, 
she  ran  to  Saniel  to  tell  him,  and  then  together  they 
repeated  that  a  conviction  was  impossible. 

"You  are  sure,  are  you  not?" 

"Have  I  not  always  told  you  so?" 

He  had  also  said  that  Florentin  could  not  be  arrested, 
basing  the  accusation  on  the  torn  button,  and  he  had 
said  that  certainly  an  ordonnance  de  non-lieu  would  be 
given  by  the  judge;  but  they  wished  to  remember  nei- 
ther the  one  nor  the  other. 

Things  had  reached  this  state,  when  one  Saturday 
evening  Phillis  arrived  at  Saniel's,  radiant. 

As  soon  as  the  door  opened  she  exclaimed: 

"He  is  saved!" 

"An  ordonnance  de  non-lieu?'* 

"No;  but  now  it  is  of  little  importance.  We  can  go 
to  the  assizes." 

She  breathed  a  sigh  which  showed  how  great  were 
her  fears,  in  spite  of  the  confidence  she  expressed  when 
she  repeated  that  conviction  was  impossible. 

He  left  his  desk,  and  going  toward  her,  took  her  in 
his  arms,  and  made  her  sit  down  beside  him  on  the 
divan. 

"You  will  see  that  I  do  not  let  myself  be  carried 
away  by  an  illusion,  and  that,  as  I  tell  you,  he  is  saved, 
really  saved.  You  know  that  an  illustrated  paper  has 
pubHshed  his  portrait?" 

"I  do  not  read  illustrated  papers." 

"You  could  have  seen  them  at  the  kiosks  where  they 
[179] 


HECTOR  MALOT 

are  displayed.  It  is  there  that  I  saw  them  yesterday 
morning  when  I  went  out,  and  I  was  petrified,  red  with 
shame,  distracted,  not  knowing  where  to  hide  myself. 
'Florentin  Cormier,  the  assassin  of  the  Rue  Sainte- 
Anne.'  Is  it  not  infamous  that  an  innocent  person 
should  be  thus  dishonored?  This  was  what  I  said  to 
myself.  Where  did  the  paper  get  the  photograph? 
They  came  to  ask  us  for  one,  but  you  can  imagine  how 
I  treated  them,  not  knowing  how  anything  good  for  us 
would  result  from  such  a  disgrace." 

"And  what  is  the  result?" 

"The  proof  that  it  is  not  Florentin  who  was  with 
Cafhe  at  the  moment  when  the  assassination  took 
place.  All  day  yesterday  and  all  this  morning  I  was 
filled  with  the  feeling  of  disgrace  that  followed  me, 
when  at  three  o'clock  I  received  this  little  note  from 
the  concierge  of  the  Rue  Sainte-Anne." 

She  took  from  her  pocket  a  piece  of  paper  folded  in 
the  form  of  a  letter,  which  she  handed  to  Saniel. 

"Mademoiselle:  If  you  will  pass  through  the  Rue  Sainte- 
Anne,  I  have  something  to  tell  you  that  will  give  you  a  great  deal 
of  pleasure,  I  believe. 

"I  am  your  servant, 

"Widow  Anais  Bouchu." 

"You  know  the  lame  old  concierge  has  never  been 
willing  to  admit  that  my  brother  could  be  guilty.  Flor- 
entin was  polite  and  kind  to  her  during  his  stay  with 
Caffi6,  and  she  is  grateful.  Very  often  she  has  said  to 
me  that  she  is  certain  the  guilty  one  would  be  found, 
and  that  when  it  was  announced  I  must  tell  her.   Instead 

[i8o] 


CONSCIENCE 

of  my  telling  her  the  good  news,  she  has  written  to  me. 
You  may  be  sure  I  hurried  to  the  Rue  Sainte-Anne, 
expecting  to  hear  something  favorable,  but  we  have  a 
proof.  When  I  arrived,  the  old  woman  took  both  of 
my  hands,  and  told  me  that  she  would  conduct  me 
immediately  to  a  lady  who  saw  Caffi^'s  assassin." 

"Saw  him!"  exclaimed  Saniel,  struck  by  a  blow  that 
shook  him  from  head  to  foot. 

.  "She  saw  him  perfectly,  as  I  tell  you.  She  added 
that  this  lady  was  the  proprietor  of  the  house,  and  that 
she  lived  in  the  second  wing  of  the  building,  on  the  sec- 
ond story  on  the  court,  just  opposite  to  Caffid's  office. 
This  lady,  who  is  called  Madame  Dammauville,  widow 
of  a  lawyer,  is  afflicted  with  paralysis,  and  I  believe  has 
not  left  her  room  for  a  year.  The  concierge  explained 
this  to  me  while  crossing  the  court  and  mounting  the 
stairs,  but  would  say  no  more." 

If  Phillis  had  been  able  to  observe  Saniel,  she  would 
have  seen  him  pale  to  such  a  degree  that  his  lips  were 
as  white  as  his  cheeks;  but  she  was  completely  absorbed 
in  what  she  was  saying. 

"  A  servant  conducted  us  to  Madame  Dammauville, 
whom  I  found  in  a  small  bed  near  a  window,  and  the 
concierge  told  her  who  I  was.  She  received  me  kindly, 
and  after  having  made  me  sit  down  in  front  of  her,  she 
told  me  that  hearing  from  her  concierge  that  I  was  ex- 
erting myself  in  my  brother's  behalf,  she  had  something 
to  tell  me  which  would  demonstrate  that  Caffi^'s  assas- 
sin was  not  the  man  whom  the  law  had  arrested  and 
detained.  The  evening  of  the  assassination  she  was  in 
this  same  room,  lying  on  this  same  bed,  before  this 

[i8i] 


HECTOR  MALOT 

same  window,  and  after  having  read  all  day,  she  re- 
flected and  dreamed  about  her  book,  while  listlessly 
watching  the  coming  of  twilight  in  the  court,  that  al- 
ready obscured  everything  in  its  shadow.  Mechanically 
she  had  fixed  her  eyes  on  the  window  of  Caffie's  office 
opposite.  Suddenly  she  saw  a  tall  man,  whom  she 
took  for  an  upholsterer,  approach  the  window,  and  try 
to  draw  the  curtains.  Then  Caffie  rose,  and  taking  the 
lamp,  he  came  forward  in  such  a  way  that  the  light  fell 
full  on  the  face  of  this  qpholsterer.  You  understand, 
do  you  not?" 

"Yes,"  murmured  Saniel. 

"She  saw  him  then  plainly  enough  to  remember  him, 
and  not  to  confound  him  with  another.  Tall,  with  long 
hair,  a  curled  blond  beard,  and  dressed  like  a  gentle- 
man, not  like  a  poor  man.  The  curtains  were  drawn. 
It  was  fifteen  or  twenty  minutes  after  five.  And  it 
was  at  this  same  moment  that  Caffie  was  butchered  by 
this  false  upholsterer,  who  evidently  had  only  drawn 
the  curtains  so  that  he  might  kill  Caffie  in  security,  and 
not  imagining  that  some  one  should  see  him  doing  a 
deed  that  denounced  him  as  the  assassin  as  surely  as  if 
he  had  been  surprised  with  the  knife  in  his  hand.  On 
reading  the  description  of  Florentin  in  the  newspapers 
when  he  was  arrested,  Madame  Dammauville  believed 
the  criminal  was  found — a  tall  man,  with  long  hair 
and  curled  beard.  There  are  some  points  of  resem- 
blance, but  in  the  portrait  published  in  the  illustrated 
paper  that  she  received,  she  did  not  recognize  the  man 
who  drew  the  curtains,  and  she  is  certain  that  the  judge 
is  deceived.    You  see  that  Florentin  is  saved!" 

[182] 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

HEDGING 

^S  he  did  not  reply  to  this  cry  of  tri- 
umph, she  looked  at  him  in  surprise, 
saw  his  face,  pale,  agitated,  under  the 
She  shock  evidently  of  a  violent  emo- 
tion that  she  could  not  explain  to  her- 
self. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  she  asked, 
with  uneasiness. 
"Nothing,"  he  answered,  almost  brutally. 
"You  do  not  wish  to  weaken  my  hope?"  she  said, 
not  imagining  that  he  could  not  think  of  this  hope  and 
of  Florentin.  This  was  a  path  to  lead  him  out  of  his 
confusion.  In  following  it  he  would  have  time  to  re- 
cover himself. 

"It  is  true,"  he  said. 

"You  do  not  think  that  what  Madame  Dammau- 
ville  saw  proves  Florentin's  innocence?" 

"Would  what  may  be  a  proof  for  Madame  Dam- 
mauville,  for  you,  and  for  me,  be  one  in  the  eyes  of 
the  law?" 

"However " 

"I  saw  you  so  joyful  that  I  did  not  dare  to  interrupt 
you." 

[183] 


HECTOR  MALOT 

"Then  you  believe  that  this  testimony  is  without 
value,"  she  murmured,  feeling  crushed. 

"I  do  not  say  that.  We  must  reflect,  weigh  the  pro 
and  con,  compass  the  situation  from  divers  points  of 
view;  that  is  what  I  try  to  do,  which  is  the  cause  of 
my  preoccupation  that  astonishes  you." 

"Say  that  it  crushes  me;  I  let  myself  be  carried 
away." 

"You  need  not  be  crushed  or  carried  away.  Cer- 
tainly, what  this  lady  told  you  forms  a  considerable 
piece  of  work " 

"Does  it  not?" 

"Without  any  doubt.  But  in  order  that  the  testi- 
mony she  gives  may  be  of  great  consequence,  the  wit- 
ness must  be  worthy  of  trust." 

"Do  you  believe  this  lady  could  have  invented  such 
a  story?" 

"I  do  not  say  that;  but  before  all,  it  is  necessary  to 
know  who  she  is." 

"The  widow  of  an  attorney." 

"The  widow  of  an  attorney  and  landowner.  Evi- 
dently this  constitutes  a  social  status  that  merits  con- 
sideration from  the  law;  but  the  moral  state,  what  is  it? 
You  say  that  she  is  paralyzed  ?" 

"She  has  been  so  a  little  more  than  a  year." 

"Of  what  paralysis?  That  is  a  vague  word  for  us 
others.  There  are  paralyses  that  affect  the  sight; 
others  that  affect  the  mind.  Is  it  one  of  these  with 
vvhich  this  lady  is  afflicted,  or  one  of  the  others,  which 
permitted  her  really  to  see,  the  evening  of  the  assassina- 
tion, that  which  she  relates,  and  which  leaves  her  men- 

[J84] 


CONSCIENCE 

tal  faculties  in  a  sane  condition  ?    Before  everything,  it 
is  important  to  know  this." 

Phillis  was  prostrated. 

"I  had  not  thought  of  all  that,"  she  murmured. 

"It  is  very  natural  that  you  had  not;  but  I  am  a 
doctor,  and  while  you  talked  it  was  the  doctor  who 
listened." 

"It  is  true,  it  is  true,"  she  repeated.  "I  only  saw 
Florentin." 

"In  your  place  I  should  have  seen,  like  you,  only  my 
brother,  and  I  should  have  been  carried  away  by  hope. 
But  I  am  not  in  your  place.  It  is  by  your  voice  that 
this  woman  speaks,  whom  I  do  not  know,  and  against 
whom  I  must  be  on  my  guard,  for  the  sole  reason  that  it 
is  a  paralytic  who  has  told  this  story." 

She  could  not  restrain  the  tears  that  came  to  her 
eyes,  and  she  let  them  flow  silently,  finding  nothing  to 
reply. 

"I  am  sorry  to  pain  you,"  he  said. 

"I  saw  only  Florentin's  liberty." 

"I  do  not  say  this  testimony  of  Madame  Dammau- 
ville  will  not  influence  the  judge,  and,  above  all,  the 
jury;  but  I  must  warn  you  that  you  will  expose  your- 
self to  a  terrible  deception  if  you  believe  that  her  testi- 
mony alone  will  give  your  brother  liberty.  It  is  not  on 
a  testimony  of  this  kind  or  of  this  quality  that  the  law 
decides;  better  than  we,  it  knows  to  what  illusions  peo- 
ple can  lend  themselves  when  it  is  the  question  of  a 
crime  that  absorbs  and  excites  the  public  curiosity. 
There  are  some  witnesses  who,  with  the  best  faith  in 
the  world,  believe  they  have  seen  the  most  extraordinary 

[i8S] 


HECTOR  MALOT 

things  which  only  existed  in  their  imaginations;  and 
there  are  people  who  accuse  themselves  rather  than  say 
nothing." 

He  heaped  words  on  words,  as  if,  in  trying  to  con- 
vince Phillis,  he  might  hope  to  convince  himself;  but 
when  the  sound  of  his  words  faded,  he  was  obliged  to 
declare  to  himself  that,  whatever  the  paralysis  of  this 
woman  might  be,  it  had  not,  in  this  instance,  produced 
either  defect  of  sight  or  of  mind.  She  had  seen,  in- 
deed, the  tall  man  with  long  hair  and  curled  beard, 
dressed  like  a  gentleman,  who  was  not  Florentin.  When 
she  related  the  story  of  the  lamp  and  the  curtain  cords, 
she  knew  what  she  was  saying. 

In  his  first  alarm  he  had  been  very  near  betraying 
himself.  Without  doubt  he  should  have  told  himself 
that  this  incident  of  the  curtains  might  prove  a  trap; 
but  all  passed  so  rapidly  that  he  never  imagined  that, 
exactly  at  the  moment  when  Caffi6  raised  the  lamp  to 
give  him  light,  there  was  a  woman  opposite  looking  at 
him,  and  who  saw  him  so  plainly  that  she  had  not  for- 
gotten him.  He  thought  to  use  all  precautions  on  his 
side  in  drawing  the  curtains,  when,  on  the  contrary,  he 
would  have  done  better  had  he  left  them  undrawn. 
Without  doubt  the  widow  of  the  attorney  would  have 
been  a  witness  of  a  part  of  the  scene,  but  in  the  shadow 
she  would  not  have  distinguished  his  features  as  she 
was  able  to  do  when  he  placed  himself  before  the  window 
under  the  light.  But  this  idea  did  not  enter  his  mind, 
and,  to  save  himself  from  an  immediate  danger,  he 
threw  himself  into  another  which,  although  uncertain, 
was  not  less  grave. 

[i86] 


CONSCIENCE 

Little  by  little  Phillis  recovered  herself,  and  the  hope 
that  Madame  Dammauville  put  in  her  heart,  moment- 
arily crushed  by  Saniel's  remarks,  sprang  up  again. 

"Is  it  not  possible  Madame  Dammauville  really  saw 
what  she  relates?" 

"Without  any  doubt;  and  there  are  even  probabili- 
ties that  it  is  so,  since  the  man  who  drew  the  curtains 
was  not  your  brother,  as  we  know.  Unfortunately,  it  is 
not  ourselves  who  must  be  convinced,  since  we  are  con- 
vinced in  advance.  It  is  those  who,  in  advance  also, 
have  one  whom  they  will  not  give  up  unless  he  is  torn 
from  them  by  force." 

"But  if  Madame  Dammauville  saw  clearly?" 

"What  must  be  learned  before  everything  is,  if  she 
is  in  a  state  to  see  clearly;  I  have  said. nothing  else." 

"A  doctor  would  surely  know  on  examining  her?" 

"Without  doubt." 

"If  you  were  this  doctor?" 

"I!" 

It  was  a  cry  rather  than  an  exclamation.  She  wished 
that  he  should  present  himself  before  this  woman ;  but 
in  that  case  she  would  recognize  him. 

Once  more,  under  the  pain  of  betraying  his  emotion, 
he  must  recover  from  this  first  impulse. 

"But  how  can  you  wish  me  to  go  and  examine  this 
woman  whom  I  do  not  know,  and  who  does  not  know 
me?  You  know  very  well  that  patients  choose  their 
doctors,  and  not  doctors  their  patients." 

"If  she  sent  for  you?" 

"By  what  right?" 

"By  what  I  shall  learn  on  making  the  concierge  talk, 

[187] 


HECTOR  MALOT 

could  you  not  recognize  her  kind  of  paralysis  without 
seeing  her?" 

"That  would  be  a  little  vague.  However,  I  will  do 
the  best  I  can.  Try  to  learn  not  only  what  concerns 
her  illness,  but  all  that  relates  to  her — what  her  posi- 
tion is,  who  are  her  relations,  which  is  important  for  a 
witness  who  overawes  as  much  by  what  he  is  as  by 
what  he  says.  You  understand  that  a  deposition  that 
destroys  the  whole  plan  of  the  prosecution  will  be  se- 
verely disputed,  and  will  only  be  accepted  if  Madame 
Dammauville  has  by  her  character  and  position  a  suffi- 
cient authority  to  break  down  all  opposition." 

"I  will  also  try  to  learn  who  is  her  doctor.  You  may 
know  him.  What  he  would  tell  you  would  be  worth 
more  than  all  the  details  that  I  could  bring  you." 

"We  should  be  immediately  decided  on  the  paral- 
ysis, and  we  should  see  what  credit  we  could  accord 
this  woman's  words." 

While  listening  to  Phillis  and  talking  himself,  he  had 
time  to  compass  the  situation  that  this  thunderbolt  cre- 
ated for  him.  Evidently,  the  first  thing  to  do  was  to 
prevent  a  suspicion  from  arising  in  Phillis's  mind,  and 
it  was  to  this  that  he  applied  himself  on  explaining  the 
different  kinds  of  paralysis.  He  knew  her  well  enough 
to  know  that  he  had  succeeded.  But  what  would  she 
do  now  ?  How  did  she  mean  to  make  use  of  Madame 
Dammauville's  declaration?  Had  she  spoken  of  it  to 
any  one  besides  himself  ?  Was  it  her  intention  to  go  to 
NougarMe  and  tell  him  what  she  had  learned  ?  All  that 
must  be  made  clear,  and  as  soon  as  possible.  She  must 
do  nothing  without  his  knowledge  and  approval.    The 

[i88] 


CONSCIENCE 

circumstances  were  critical  enough,  without  his  letting 
accident  become  the  master  to  direct  them  and  conduct 
them  blindly. 

"When  did  you  see  Madame  Dammauville ? "  he 
asked. 

"Just  this  minute." 

"And  now,  what  do  you  wish  to  do?" 

"I  think  that  I  ought  to  tell  Monsieur  NougarMe." 

,  "Evidently,  whatever  the  value  of  Madame  Dammau- 

ville's  declaration,  he  should  know  it;  he  will  appraise 

it.    Only,  as  it  is  well  to  explain  to  him  what  may  vitiate 

this  testimony,  if  you  wish,  I  will  go  to  see  him." 

"Certainly  I  wish  it,  and  I  thank  you." 

"In  the  mean  time,  return  to  your  mother  and  tell 
her  what  you  have  learned;  but,  that  she  may  not 
)rield  to  an  exaggerated  hope,  tell  her,  also,  that  if  there 
are  chances,  and  great  ones,  in  favor  of  your  brother, 
on  the  other  side  there  are  some  that  are  unfavorable. 
To-morrow  or  this  evening  you  will  return  to  the  Rue 
Sainte-Anne  and  begin  your  inquiries  of  the  concierge. 
If  the  old  woman  tells  you  nothing  interesting,  you 
must  go  to  Madame  Dammauville,  and  make  some  rea^ 
son  for  seeing  her.  Make  her  talk,  and  you  will  notice 
if  her  ideas  are  consecutive,  and  examine  her  face  and 
eyes.  Above  all,  neglect  nothing  that  appears  to  you 
characteristic.  Having  taken  care  of  your  mother,  you 
know  almost  as  well  as  a  doctor  the  symptoms  of  mye- 
litis, and  you  could  see  instantly  if  Madame  Dammau- 
ville has  them." 

"If  I  dared!"  she  said  timidly,  after  a  short  hesi- 
tation. 

['89] 


HECTOR  MALOT 

"What?" 

"I  would  ask  you  to  come  with  me  to  the  concierge 
immediately." 

"You  think  of  such  a  thing!"  he  exclaimed. 

Since  the  evening  when  he  had  testified  to  the  death 
of  Caffie,  he  had  not  returned  to  the  Rue  Sainte-Anne; 
and  it  was  not  when  the  description  given  by  Madame 
Dammauville  was,  doubtless,  already  spread  in  the 
quarter,  that  he  was  going  to  commit  the  imprudence 
of  showing  himself.  But  he  must  explain  this  exclam- 
ation. 

"How  can  you  expect  a  doctor  to  give  himself  up  to 
such  an  investigation  ?  On  your  part  it  is  quite  natural; 
on  mine  it  would  be  unheard  of  and  ridiculous;  add  that 
it  would  be  dangerous.  You  must  conciliate  Madame 
Dammauville,  and  this  would  be  truly  a  stupidity  that 
would  give  her  a  pretext  for  thinking  that  you  are  trying 
to  find  out  whether  she  is,  or  is  not,  in  her  right  mind." 

"That  is  true,"  she  said.  "I  had  not  thought  of  that. 
I  said  to  myself  that,  while  I  could  only  listen  to  what 
the  concierge  would  tell  me,  you  would  know  how  to 
question  her  in  a  way  that  would  lead  her  to  say  what 
you  want  to  learn." 

"I  hope  that  your  investigation  will  tell  me.  In  any 
case,  let  us  offend  in  nothing.  If  to-morrow  you  bring 
me  only  insignificant  details,  we  will  consider  what  to 
do.  In  the  mean  time,  return  to  the  concierge  this  even- 
ing and  question  her.  If  it  is  possible,  see  Madame 
Dammauville,  and  do  not  go  home  until  after  having 
obtained  some  news  on  this  subject  that  is  of  such  im- 
portance to  us.    And  I  will  go  to  see  Nougarede." 

[190] 


GHAPTER  XXV 

DAGNEROUS  DETAILS 

^T  was  not  to  falsify  Phillis's  story  that 
Saniel  insisted  on  going  to  see  Nou- 
garede.  What  good  would  it  do  ?  That 
would  be  a  blunder  which  sooner  or 
later  would  show  itself,  and  in  that 
case  would  turn  against  him.  He 
would  have  liked,  with  the  authority 
of  a  physician,  to  explain  that  this 
testimony  of  a  paralytic  could  have  no  more  importance 
than  that  of  a  crazy  woman. 

But  at  the  first  words  of  an  explanation  Nougarede 
stopped  him. 

"What  you  say  is  very  possible,  my  dear  friend;  but 
I  shall  make  you  see  that  it  is  not  for  us  to  raise  objec- 
tions of  this  kind.  Here  is  a  testimony  that  may  save 
our  client;  let  us  accept  this,  such  as  it  may  be, 
whence  it  comes.  It  is  the  business  of  the  prosecution 
to  prove  that  our  witness  could  not  see  what  she  relates 
that  she  saw,  or  that  her  mental  condition  does  not 
permit  her  to  know  what  she  saw;  and  do  not 
be  afraid,  investigation  will  not  be  lacking.  Do  not 
let  us  even  give  a  hint  from  our  side ;  that  would  be 
stupid." 
This,  certainly,  was  not  what  Saniel  wished;  only 
[191] 


HECTOR  MALOT 

he  believed  it  a  duty,  in  his  quality  of  physician,  to  indi- 
cate some  rocks  against  which  they  might  strike  them- 
selves. 

"Our  duty,"  continued  the  advocate,  "is,  therefore, 
to  manage  in  a  way  to  escape  them ;  and  this  is  how  I 
understand  the  role  of  this  really  providential  witness, 
if  it  is  possible  to  make  her  undertake  it.  Since  it  has 
occurred  to  you — you  who  wish  the  acquittal  of  this 
poor  boy — that  the  testimony  of  Madame  Dammauville 
may  be  vitiated  by  the  simple  fact  that  it  comes  from  a 
sick  woman,  it  is  incontestable,  is  it  not,  that  this  same 
idea  will  occur  to  those  who  wish  for  his  conviction? 
This  testimony  should  be  irrefutable;  it  should  be  pre- 
sented in  such  a  way  that  no  one  could  raise  anything 
against  it,  so  that  it  would  compel  the  acquittal  in  the 
same  moment  that  it  is  presented.  It  was  between  a 
quarter  past  and  half  past  five  o'clock  that  Cafhe  was 
assassinated;  at  exactly  a  quarter  past  five,  a  woman 
of  respectable  position,  and  whose  intellectual  as  well 
as  physical  faculties  render  her  worthy  of  being  be- 
lieved, saw  in  Caffie's  office  a  man,  with  whom  it  is 
materially  impossible  to  confound  Florentin  Cormier, 
draw  the  curtains  of  the  window,  and  thus  prepare  for 
the  crime.  She  would  make  her  deposition  in  these 
conditions,  and  in  these  terms,  and  the  affair  would  be 
finished.  There  would  not  be  a  judge,  after  this  con- 
frontation, who  would  send  Florentin  Cormier  before 
the  assizes,  and,  assuredly,  there  would  not  be  two  voices 
in  the  jury  for  conviction.  But  things  will  not  happen 
like  this.  Without  doubt,  Madame  Dammauville  bears 
a  name  that  is  worth  something;  her  husband  was  an 

[192] 


CONSCIENCE 

estimable  attorney,  a  brother  of  the  one  who  was  no- 
tary at  Paris." 

"Have  you  ever  had  any  business  with  her?" 

"Never.  I  tell  you  what  is  well  known  to  every  one, 
morally  she  is  irreproachable.  But  is  she  the  same 
physically  and  mentally  ?  Not  at  all,  unfortunately.  If 
a  physician  can  be  found  who  will  declare  that  her 
paralysis  does  not  give  her  aberrations  or  hallucina- 
tions, another  one  will  be  found  who  will  contest  these 
opinions,  and  who  will  come  to  an  opposite  conclusion. 
So  much  for  the  witness  herself;  now  for  the  testimony. 
This  testimony  does  not  say  that  the  man  who  drew  the 
curtains  at  a  quarter  past  five  was  built  in  such  a  way 
that  it  is  materially  impossible  to  confound  him  with 
Florentin  Cormier,  because  he  was  small  or  hunch- 
backed or  bald,  or  dressed  like  a  workman;  while 
Florentin  is  tall,  straight,  with  long  hair  and  beard,  and 
dressed  like  a  gentleman.  It  says,  simply,  that  the  man 
who  drew  the  curtains  was  tall,  with  long  hair,  and 
curled  blond  beard,  and  dressed  like  a  gentleman.  But 
this  description  is  exactly  Florentin  Cormi*»-'s,  as  it  is 
yours " 

"Mine!"  Saniel  exclaimed. 

"Yours,  as  well  as  that  of  many  others.  And  it  is 
this,  unfortunately  for  us,  which  destroys  the  irrefuta- 
bility that  we  must  have.  How  is  it  certain  that  this 
tall  man,  with  long  hair  and  curled  beard,  is  not  Floren- 
tin Cormier,  since  these  are  his  chief  characteristics? 
And  it  was  at  night,  at  a  distance  of  twelve  or  fifteen 
metres,  through  a  window,  whose  panes  were  obscured 
by  the  dust  of  papers  and  the  mist,  that  this  sick  woman, 
13  [ 193  ] 


HECTOR  MALOT 

whose  eyes  are  affected,  whose  mind  is  weakened  by  suf- 
fering, was  able,  in  a  very  short  space  of  time,  when  she 
had  no  interest  to  imprint  upon  her  memory  what  she 
saw,  to  grasp  certain  signs,  that  she  recalled  yesterday 
strongly  enough  to  declare  that  the  man  who  drew  the 
curtains  was  not  Florentin  Cormier,  against  whom  so 
many  charges  have  accumulated  from  various  sides, 
and  who  has  only  this  testimony  in  his  favor — every 
sensible  person  could  not  but  find  it  suspicious!" 

"But  it  is  true,"  Saniel  said,  happy  to  lend  himself  to 
this  view  of  the  matter,  which  was  his  own. 

"What  makes  the  truth  of  a  thing,  my  dear  sir,  is 
the  way  of  presenting  it;  let  us  change  this  manner  and 
we  falsify  it.  To  arrive  at  the  conclusion  which  made 
you  say  'It  is  true,'  I  am  on  the  side  of  the  idea  that 
to-morrow  Madame  Dammauville's  story  should  be 
known  to  the  law,  that  the  brave  lady  should  be  heard 
before  the  prosecution,  and  that  time  should  be  allowed 
to  examine  this  testim.ony  that  you  suspect.  Now  let  us 
look  at  it  from  the  opposite  point.  Madame  Dammau- 
ville's story  is  not  known  to  the  law,  or,  if  something 
transpires,  we  will  arrange  that  this  something  is  so 
vague  that  the  prosecution  will  attach  but  little  impor- 
tance to  it.  And  this  is  possible  if  we  do  not  base  a  new 
defence  on  this  testimony.  We  arrive  at  the  judgment, 
and  when  the  prosecution  has  listened  to  its  witness- 
es which  have  overwhelmed  us — the  agent  of  affairs 
Savoureux,  the  tailor  Valerius, — it  is  Madame  Dam- 
mauville's turn.  She  simply  relates  what  she  saw,  and 
declares  that  the  man  who  is  on  the  prisoner's  bench  is 
not  the  same  who  drew  the  curtains  at  a  quarter  past 

[  194 1 


CONSCIENCE 

five.  Do  you  see  the  coup  de  thedtre  ?  The  prosecu- 
tion had  not  foreseen  it;  it  had  not  inquired  into  the 
health  of  the  witness;  the  physician  would  not  be 
there  to  quote  the  defects  of  sight  or  reason ;  very  prob- 
ably it  would  not  think  of  the  dusty  windowpanes, 
or  of  the  distance.  And  all  the  opposing  arguments 
that  would  be  properly  arranged  if  there  were  time, 
would  be  lacking,  and  we  should  carry  the  acquittal 
with  a  high  hand." 

Arranged  thus,  things  were  too  favorable  for  Saniel 
for  him  not  to  receive,  with  a  sentiment  of  relief,  this 
combination  which  brought  Florentin's  acquittal  more 
surely,  it  seemed  to  him,  than  all  that  they  had  arranged 
for  his  defence  up  to  this  day.  However,  an  objection 
occurred  to  him,  which  he  communicated  to  Nouga- 
r^de  immediately. 

"Would  one  wish  to  admit  that  Madame  Dammau- 
ville  had  kept  silent  on  so  grave  a  matter,  and  waited 
for  an  audience  to  reveal  it?" 

"This  silence  she  kept  until  yesterday;  why  should 
she  not  keep  it  a  few  days  longer?  It  is  evident  that 
if  she  had  not  related  what  she  saw,  it  is  because  she 
had  reasons  for  being  silent.  It  is  probable  that,  being 
ill,  she  did  not  wish  to  expose  herself  to  the  annoyances 
and  fatigue  of  an  investigation;  and  in  her  eyes  her 
deposition  was  not  of  great  importance.  What  should 
she  have  revealed  to  the  prosecution?  That  the  man 
who  committed  the  crime  was  tall,  with  a  curled  blond 
beard  ?  This  man  the  law  held,  or  it  held  one  the  de- 
scription of  whom  answered  to  this,  which  to  Madame 
Dammauville  was  the  same  thing.    She  did  not  need, 

[195] 


HECTOR  MALOT 

therefore,  to  call  the  police  or  the  judge  to  tell  them 
these  insignificant  things  for  her  own  comfort;  and, 
also,  because  she  believed  that  she  had  nothing  inter- 
esting to  say,  she  did  not  speak.  It  was  when  ac- 
cident brought  to  her  notice  the  portrait  of  the  ac- 
cused, she  recognized  that  the  law  had  not  the  real 
criminal,  and  then  she  broke  the  silence.  The  mo- 
ment when  she  first  saw  this  portrait  is  not  stated  pre- 
cisely; I  undertake  to  arrange  that.  The  difficulty  is 
not  there." 

"Where  do  you  see  it?" 

"Here :  Madame  Dammauville  may  have  already  told 
her  story  to  so  many  persons  that  it  is  already  public 
property,  where  the  prosecution  has  picked  it  up.  In 
that  case  there  will  be  no  coup  de  thedtre.  She  will  be 
questioned,  her  deposition  examined,  and  we  will  have 
only  a  suspected  testimony.  The  first  thing  to  do,  then, 
is  to  know  how  far  this  story  has  spread,  and  if  there 
is  yet  time  to  prevent  it  from  spreading  farther." 

"That  is  not  easy,  it  seems  to  me." 

"I  beheve  Mademoiselle  Phillis  can  do  it.  She  is  a 
brave  woman,  whom  nothing  dejects  or  disconcerts, 
which  is  the  living  proof  that  we  are  only  valued 
according  to  the  force  and  versatiHty  of  the  inner 
consciousness.  For  the  rest,  I  need  not  sound  her 
praises,  since  you  know  her  better  than  I ;  and  what  I 
say  has  no  other  object  but  to  explain  the  confidence 
that  I  place  in  her.  As  I  cannot  interfere  myself,  I 
think  there  is  no  better  person  than  she  to  act  on 
Madame  Dammauville,  without  disturbing  or  wound- 
ing her,  and  to  bring  about  the  result  that  we  desire. 

[196] 


CONSCIENCE 

I  am  sure  that  she  has  already  won  Madame  Dam 
mauville,  and  that  she  will  be  listened  to  with  sym- 
pathy." 

"Do  you  wish  me  to  write  to  her  to  come  to  see  you 
to-morrow?" 

"No;  it  would  be  better  for  you  so  see  her  this  even- 
ing, if  possible." 

"I  shall  go  to  the  BatignoUes  when  I  leave  you." 
.   "She  will  enter  into  her  part  perfectly,  I  am  certain, 
and  she  will  succeed,  I  hope." 

"It  seems  to  me  that  your  combination  rests,  above 
all,  on  the  coup  de  thedtre  of  the  non-recognition  of 
Florentin  by  Madame  Dammauville.  How  will  you 
bring  this  paralytic  to  court?" 

"I  depend  upon  you." 

"And  how?" 

"You  will  examine  her." 

"I  shall  have  to  go  to  her  house!" 

"Why  not?" 

"Because  I  am  not  her  doctor." 

"You  will  become  so." 

"It  is  impossible." 

"I  do  not  find  it  at  all  impossible  that  you  should  be 
called  in  consultation.  I  have  not  forgotten  that  your 
thesis  was  on  the  paralyses  due  to  the  affection  of  the 
spinal  cord,  and  it  was  remarkable  enough  for  us  to 
discuss  it  in  our  parloUe  of  the  Rue  de  Vaugirard.  You 
have,  therefore,  authority  in  the  matter." 

"  It  is  not  on  account  of  having  written  several  works 
on  the  pathological  anatomy  of  medullary  lesions,  and 
especially  on  the  alterations  of  the  spinal  ganglia,  that 

[197] 


HECTOR  MALOT 

one  acquires  authority  in  a  question  so  comprehensive 
and  so  delicate." 

"Do  not  be  too  modest,  dear  friend.  I  have  had, 
lately,  to  consult  my  Dictionary  of  Medicine,  and  at 
each  page  your  w^ork  was  quoted.  And,  besides,  the 
way  in  which  you  passed  your  examinations  made  you 
famous.  Every  one  talks  of  you.  So  it  is  not  impossible 
that  Mademoiselle  Phillis,  relating  that  her  mother  was 
cured  of  a  similar  paralysis,  will  give  Madame  Dam- 
mauville  the  idea  of  consulting  you,  and  her  physician 
will  send  for  you." 

"You  will  not  do  that?" 

"And  why  should  I  not  do  it?" 

They  looked  at  each  other  a  moment  in  silence,  and 
Saniel  turned  his  eyes  away. 

"I  detest  nothing  so  much  as  to  appear  to  put  myself 
forward." 

"In  this  case  it  is  no  matter  what  you  detest  or  like. 
The  question  is  to  save  this  unfortunate  young  man 
whom  you  know  to  be  innocent;  and  you  can  do  a  kind 
deed  and  aid  us.  You  examine  Madame  Dammauville; 
you  see  with  which  paralysis  she  is  afflicted,  and  con- 
sequently, what  exceptions  may  be  taken  at  her  testi- 
mony. At  the  same  time,  you  see  if  you  can  cure  her, 
or,  at  least,  put  her  in  a  state  to  go  to  court." 

"And  if  it  is  proved  that  she  cannot  leave  her  bed?" 

"In  that  case  I  shall  change  my  order  of  battle,  and 
that  is  why  it  is  of  capital  importance — you  know  that 
that  is  the  word — that  we  should  be  warned  before- 
hand." 

"You  will  make  the  judge  receive  her  deposition?" 
[198] 


CONSCIENCE 

"In  any  case.  But  I  shall  make  her  write  a  letter 
that  I  shall  read  at  the  desired  moment,  and  I  shall 
call  upon  her  physician  to  explain  that  he  would  not 
permit  his  patient  to  come  to  court.  Without  doubt, 
the  effect  would  not  be  what  I  desire,  but,  anyhow,  we 
should  have  one." 


[199] 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

A  GOOD  MEMORY 

''TER  Phillis,  NougarMe  also  wished 
him  to  see  Madame  Dammauville ;  this 
coincidence  was  not  the  least  danger 
of  the  situation  that  opened  before  him. 
If  he  saw  her,  the  chances  were  that 
she  would  recognize  in  him  the  man 
who  drew  the  curtains;  for,  if  he  was 
able  to  speak  to  Phillis  and  Nougarede 
of  an  afiFection  of  the  eyes  or  of  the  mind,  he  did  not  be- 
lieve in  these  affections,  which  for  him  were  only  make- 
shifts. 

When  he  reached  Madame  Cormier's,  Phillis  had 
not  returned,  and  he  was  obliged  to  explain  to  the  un- 
easy mother  why  her  daughter  was  late. 

It  was  a  delirium  of  joy,  before  which  he  felt  embar- 
rassed. How  should  he  break  the  hope  of  this  unhappy 
mother  ? 

What  he  had  said  to  Phillis  and  to  NougarMehe 
repeated  to  her. 

"But  it  is  possible,  also,  for  paralytics  to  enjoy  all 
their  faculties!"  Madame  Cormier  said,  with  a  deci- 
sion that  was  not  in  accordance  with  her  habit  or  with 
her  character. 
"Assuredly." 

[  200] 


CONSCIENCE 

"Am  I  not  an  example?" 

"Without  doubt." 

"Then  Florentin  will  be  saved." 

"This  is  what  we  hope.  I  only  caution  you  against 
an  excess  of  joy  by  an  excess  of  prudence.  Neverthe- 
less, it  is  probable  Mademoiselle  Phillis  will  settle  this 
for  us  when  she  returns." 

"Perhaps  it  would  have  been  better  if  you  had  gone 
to  the  Rue  Sainte-Anne.  You  would  have  found 
her." 

There  was,  then,  a  universal  mania  to  send  him  to 
the  Rue  Sainte-Anne! 

They  waited,  but  the  conversation  was  difficult  and 
slow  between  them.  It  was  neither  of  Phillis  nor  of 
Florentin  that  Saniel  thought;  it  was  of  himself  and 
of  his  own  fears;  while  Madame  Cormier's  thoughts 
ran  to  Phillis.  Then  there  were  long  silences  that 
Madame  Cormier  interrupted  by  going  to  the  kitchen  to 
look  after  her  dinner,  that  had  been  ready  since  two 
o'clock. 

Not  knowing  what  to  say  or  do  in  the  presence  of 
Saniel's  sombre  face  and  preoccupation,  which  she 
could  not  explain,  she  asked  him  if  he  had  dined. 

"Not  yet." 

"If  you  will  accept  a  plate  of  soup,  I  have  some  of 
yesterday's  bouillon,  that  Phillis  did  not  find  bad." 

But  he  did  not  accept,  which  hurt  Madame  Cormier. 
For  a  long  time  Saniel  had  been  a  sort  of  god  to  her, 
and  since  he  had  shown  so  much  zeal  regarding  Floren- 
tin, the  culte  was  become  more  fervent. 

At  last  Phillis' s  step  was  heard. 
[201] 


HECTOR  MALOT 

"What!  You  came  to  tell  mamraa!"  she  exclaimed, 
on  seeing  Saniel. 

Ordinarily  her  mother  listened  to  her  respectfully, 
but  now  she  interrupted  her. 

"And  Madame  Dammauville ? "  she  asked. 

"Madame  Dammauville  has  excellent  eyes.  She  is  a 
woman  of  intellect,  who,  without  the  assistance  of  any 
business  man,  manages  her  fortune." 

Overcome,  Madame  Cormier  fell  into  a  chair. 

"Oh,  the  poor  child!"  she  murmured. 

Exclamations  of  joy  escaped  her  which  contained 
but  little  sense. 

"It  is  as  I  thought,"  Saniel  said;  "but  it  would  be 
imprudent  to  abandon  ourselves  to  hopes  to-day  that 
to-morrow  may  destroy." 

While  he  spoke  he  escaped,  at  least,  from  the  embar- 
rassment of  his  position  and  from  the  examination  of 
Philhs. 

"What  did  Monsieur  Nougarede  say?"  she  asked. 

"I  will  explain  to  you  presently.  Begin  by  telling  us 
what  you  learned  from  Madame  Dammauville.  It 
is  her  condition  that  will  decide  our  course,  at  least  that 
which  Nougarede  counsels  us  to  adopt." 

"When  the  concierge  saw  me  return,"  Phillis  began, 
"she  showed  a  certain  surprise;  but  she  is  a  good 
woman,  who  is  easily  tamed,  and  I  had  not  much  trou- 
ble in  making  her  tell  me  all  she  knows  of  Madame 
Dammauville.  Three  years  ago  Madame  Dammau- 
ville became  a  widow  without  children.  She  is  about 
forty  years  of  age,  and  since  her  widowhood  has  lived 
in  her  house  in  the  Rue  Sainte-Anne.    Until  last  year 

[  202  ] 


CONSCIENCE 

she  was  not  ill,  but  she  went  every  year  to  the  springs  at 
Lamoulon.  It  is  a  year  since  she  was  taken  with  pains 
that  were  thought  to  be  rheumatic,  following  which, 
paralysis  attacked  her  and  confined  her  to  her  bed. 
She  suffers  so  much  sometimes  that  she  cries,  but  these 
are  spasms  that  do  not  last.  In  the  intervals  she  lives 
the  ordinary  life,  except  that  she  does  not  get  up.  She 
reads  a  great  deal,  receives  her  friends,  her  sister-in- 
law — widow  of  a  notary — her  nephews  and  nieces,  and 
one  of  the  vicars  of  the  parish,  for  she  is  very  charita- 
ble. Her  eyes  are  excellent.  She  has  never  had  deli- 
rium or  hallucinations.  She  is  very  reserved,  detests 
gossip,  and  above  everything  seeks  to  live  quietly.  The 
assassination  of  Caffie  exasperated  her;  she  would  let 
no  one  speak  to  her  of  him,  and  she  spoke  of  it  to  no 
one.  She  even  said  that  if  she  were  in  a  condition  to 
leave  her  house,  she  would  sell  it,  so  that  she  would 
never  hear  the  name  of  Caffie." 

"How  did  she  speak  of  the  portrait  and  of  the  man 
she  saw  in  Caffi^'s  office?"  Saniel  asked. 

"That  is  exactly  the  question  that  the  concierge  was 
not  able  to  answer;  so  I  decided  to  go  to  see  Madame 
Dammauville  again." 

"You  are  courageous,"  the  mother  said  with  pride. 

"I  assure  you  that  I  was  not  so  on  going  up-stairs. 
After  what  I  had  heard  of  her  character,  it  was  truly 
audacious  to  go  a  second  time,  after  an  interval  of  two 
hours,  to  trouble  her,  but  it  was  necessary.  While 
ascending,  I  sought  a  reason  to  justify,  or,  at  least,  to 
explain  my  second  visit,  and  I  found  only  an  adventur- 
ous one,  for  which  I  ought  to  ask  your  indulgence." 

[203] 


HECTOR  MALOT 

She  said  this  on  turning  toward  Saniel,  but  with  low- 
ered eyes,  without  daring  to  look  at  him,  and  with  an 
emotion  that  made  him  uneasy. 

"My  indulgence?"  he  said. 

"I  acted  without  having  time  to  reflect,  and  under 
the  pressure  of  immediate  need.  As  Madame  Dam- 
mauville  expressed  surprise  at  seeing  me  again,  I  told 
her  that  what  she  had  said  to  me  was  so  serious,  and 
might  have  such  consequences  for  the  life  and  honor  of 
my  brother,  that  I  had  thought  of  returning  the  next 
day,  accompanied  by  a  person  familiar  with  the  affair, 
before  whom  she  would  repeat  her  story;  and  that  I 
came  to  ask  her  permission  to  present  this  person. 
This  person  is  yourself." 

"I!" 

"And  that  is  why,"  she  said  feebly,  without  raising 
her  eyes,  "that  I  have  need  of  your  indulgence." 

"But  I  had  told  you — "  he  exclaimed  with  a  violence 
that  the  dissatisfaction  at  being  so  disposed  of  was  not 
sufficient  to  justify. 

"That  you  could  not  present  yourself  to  Madame 
Dammauville  in  the  character  of  a  physician  unless  she 
sent  for  you.  I  did  not  forget  that;  and  it  is  not  as  a 
physician  that  I  wish  to  beg  you  to  accompany  me,  but 
as  a  friend,  if  you  permit  me  to  speak  thus;  as  the  most 
devoted,  the  most  firm,  and  the  most  generous  friend  that 
we  have  had  the  happiness  to  encounter  in  our  distress." 

"My  daughter  speaks  in  my  name,  as  in  her  own," 
Madame  Cormier  said  with  emotion;  "I  add  that  it 
is  a  respectful  friendship,  a  profound  gratitude,  that  we 
feel  toward  you." 

[204] 


CONSCIENCE 

Although  Phillis  trembled  to  see  the  effect  that  she 
produced  on  Saniel,  she  continued  with  firmness: 

"You  would  accompany  me,  then,  without  doing 
anything  ostensibly,  without  saying  you  are  a  doctor, 
and  while  she  talks  you  could  examine  her.  Madame 
Dammauville  gave  her  consent  to  my  request  with  ex- 
treme kindness.  I  shall  return  to  her  to-morrow,  and 
if  you  think  it  useful,  if  you  think  you  should  accept  the 
part  that  I  claimed  for  you  without  consulting  you, 
you  can  accompany  me." 

He  did  not  reply  to  these  last  words,  which  were  an 
invitation  as  well  as  a  question. 

"Did  you  not  examine  her  as  I  told  you?"  he  asked, 
after  a  moment  of  reflection. 

"With  all  the  attention  of  which  I  was  capable  in  my 
anguish.  Her  glance  seemed  to  me  straight  and  un- 
troubled; her  voice  is  regular,  very  rhythmical;  her 
words  follow  each  other  without  hesitation;  her  ideas 
are  consecutive  and  clearly  expressed.  There  is  no 
trace  of  suffering  on  her  pale  face,  which  bears  only  the 
mark  of  a  resigned  grief.  She  moves  her  arms  freely, 
but  the  legs,  so  far  as  I  could  judge  under  the  bed- 
clothes, are  motionless.  In  many  ways  it  seems  to  me 
that  her  paralysis  resembles  mamma's,  though  it  is  true 
that  in  others  it  does  not.  She  must  be  extremely  sen- 
sitive to  the  cold,  for  although  the  weather  is  not  cold 
to-day,  the  temperature  of  her  room  seemed  very  high." 

"This  is  an  examination,"  Saniel  said,  "that  a  phy- 
sician could  not  have  conducted  better,  unless  he  ques- 
tioned the  patient;  and  had  I  been  with  you  during  this 
visit  we  should  not  have  learned  anything  more.    It  ap- 

[205] 


HECTOR  MALOT 

pears  certain  that  Madame  Dammauville  is  in  posses- 
sion of  her  faculties,  which  renders  her  testimony  in- 
vulnerable." 

Madame  Cormier  drew  her  daughter  to  her  and 
kissed  her  passionately. 

"I  have,  therefore,  nothing  to  do  with  this  lady," 
continued  Saniel,  with  the  precipitation  of  a  man  who 
has  just  escaped  a  danger.  "But  your  part.  Mademoi- 
selle, is  not  finished,  and  you  must  return  to  her  to- 
morrow to  fulfil  that  which  Nougarede  confides  to 
you." 

He  explained  what  Nougarede  expected  of  her. 

"Certainly,"  she  said.  "I  will  do  all  that  I  am  ad- 
vised to  do  for  Florentin.  I  will  go  to  Madame  Dam- 
mauville; I  will  go  everywhere.  But  will  you  permit 
me  to  express  my  astonishment  that  immediate  profit  is 
not  made  of  this  declaration  to  obtain  the  release  of  my 
brother?" 

He  repeated  the  reasons  that  Nougarede  had  given 
him  for  not  proceeding  in  this  manner. 

"I  would  not  say  anything  that  resembles  a  re- 
proach," said  Madame  Cormier,  with  more  decision 
than  she  ordinarily  put  into  her  words;  "but  perhaps 
Monsieur  Nougarede  has  some  personal  ideas  in  his 
advice.  Our  interest  is  that  Florentin  should  return  to 
us  as  quickly  as  possible,  and  that  he  should  be  spared 
the  sufferings  of  a  prison.  But  I  understand  that  to  an 
ordonnance  de  non-lieu^  in  which  he  does  not  appear. 
Monsieur  Nougarede  prefers  the  broad  light  of  the 
court,  where  he  could  deliver  a  brilliant  address,  useful 
to  his  reputation." 

[206] 


CONSCIENCE 

"Whether  or  not  he  has  made  this  calculation," 
Saniel  said,  "things  are  thus.  I,  also,  I  should  have 
preferred  the  ordonnance  de  non-lieu,  which  has  the 
great  advantage  of  finishing  everything  immediately. 
Nougarede  does  not  believe  that  this  would  be  a  good 
plan  to  follow,  so  we  must  follow  the  one  that  he  traces 
out  for  us." 

"We  will  follow  it,"  Phillis  said,  "and  I  believe  that 
it  may  bring  about  the  result  Monsieur  Nougarede  ex- 
pects, as  Madame  Dammauville  would  have  spoken  to 
but  few  persons.  When  I  tried  to  make  her  explain 
herself  on  this  point,  without  asking  her  the  question 
directly,  she  told  me  that  she  had  only  spoken  to  the 
concierge  of  the  non-resemblance  of  the  portrait  to  the 
man  she  saw  draw  the  curtains,  so  that  the  concierge, 
who  had  often  spoken  to  her  of  Florentin  and  of  my 
efforts  to  save  him,  might  warn  me.  I  shall  see,  then, 
to-morrow,  how  far  her  story  has  spread,  and  I  will  go 
to  see  you  about  it  at  five  o'clock,  unless  you  prefer  that 
I  should  go  at  once  to  see  Monsieur  Nougarede." 

"Begin  with  me,  and  we  will  go  together  to  see  him, 
if  there  is  occasion.    I  am  going  to  write  to  him." 

"If  I  understand  Monsieur  Nougar^de's  plan,  it  seems 
that  it  rests  on  Madame  Dammauville's  appearance 
in  court.  Will  this  appearance  be  possible?  That  is 
what  I  could  not  learn;  only  a  physician  could  tell." 

Saniel  did  not  wish  to  let  it  appear  that  he  under- 
stood this  new  challenge. 

"I  forgot  to  tell  you,"  Phillis  continued,  "that  the 
physician  who  attends  her  is  Doctor  Balzajette  of  the 
Rue  de  I'Echelle.    Do  you  know  him  ?  " 

[207] 


HECTOR  MALOT 

"A  prig,  who  conceals  his  ignorance  under  dignified 
manners." 

No  sooner  had  these  words  left  his  lips  than  he  real- 
ized his  error.  Madame  Dammauville  should  have 
an  excellent  physician,  one  who  was  so  high  in  the  esti- 
mation of  his  confreres  that,  if  he  did  not  cure  her,  it 
was  because  she  was  incurable. 

"Then  how  can  you  hope  that  he  will  cure  her  in 
time  for  her  to  go  to  court?"  Phillis  asked. 

He  did  not  answer,  and  rose  to  go.  Timidly,  Ma- 
dame Cormier  repeated  her  invitation,  but  he  did  not 
accept  it,  in  spite  of  the  tender  glance  that  Phillis  gave 
him. 


[208] 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

A  NEW  PERIL 

JOULD  he  be  able  to  resist  the  pressure 
which  from  all  sides  at  once  pushed 
him  toward  the  Rue  Sainte  Anne  ? 

It  seemed  that  nothing  was  easier 
than  not  to  commit  the  folly  of  yield- 
ing, and  yet  such  was  the  persistence  of 
the  efforts  that  were  united  against 
him,  that  he  asked  himself  if,  one  day, 
he  would  not  be  led  to  obey  them  in  spite  of  himself. 
Phillis,  NougarMe,  Madame  Cormier.  Now,  whence 
would  come  a  new  attack  ? 

For  several  months  he  had  enjoyed  a  complete  secu- 
rity, which  convinced  him  that  all  danger  was  over  for- 
ever. But  all  at  once  this  danger  burst  forth  under 
such  conditions  that  he  must  recognize  that  there  could 
never  more  be  any  security  for  him.  To-day  Madame 
Dammauville  menaced  him;  to-morrow  it  would  be 
some  one  else.  Who  ?  He  did  not  know.  Every  one. 
And  it  was  the  anguish  of  his  position  to  be  condemned 
to  live  hereafter  in  fear,  and  on  the  defensive,  without 
repose,  without  forgetfulness. 

But  it  was  not  to-morrow  about  which  he  need  be 
uneasy  at  this  moment,  it  was  the  present  hour;  that  is 
to  say,  Madame  Dammauville. 
14  [  209  ] 


HECTOR  MALOT 

That  she  should  say,  with  so  much  firmness  at  the 
sight  of  a  single  portrait,  that  the  man  who  drew  the 
curtains  was  not  Florentin,  she  must  have  an  excellent 
memory  of  the  eyes;  at  the  same  time  a  resolute  mind 
and  a  decision  in  her  ideas,  which  permitted  her  to 
affirm  without  hesitation  what  she  believed  to  be 
true. 

If  they  should  ever  meet,  she  would  recognize  him, 
and  recognizing  him,  she  would  speak. 

Would  she  be  believed  ? 

This  was  the  decisive  question,  and  from  what  he 
had  heard  of  her,  it  seemed  that  she  would  be. 

Denials  would  not  suffice.  He  did  not  go  to  Caffie's 
at  a  quarter  past  five.  Where  was  he  at  this  moment  ? 
What  witness  could  he  call  upon  ?  Caffie's  wound  was 
made  by  a  hand  skilled  in  killing,  and  this  learned 
hand  was  his,  more  even  than  that  of  a  murderer.  Every 
one  knew  that  his  position  at  that  moment  was  des- 
perate, financially  speaking;  and,  suddenly,  he  paid 
his  debts.  Who  would  believe  the  Monte  Carlo 
story? 

One  word,  one  little  hint,  from  this  Madame  Dam- 
mauville  and  he  was  lost,  without  defence,  without  pos- 
sible struggles. 

Truly,  and  fortunately,  since  she  was  paralyzed  and 
confined  to  her  bed,  he  ran  no  risk  of  meeting  her  face 
to  face  at  the  comer  of  a  street,  or  at  the  house  of  an 
acquaintance,  nor  of  hearing  the  cry  of  surprise  that 
she  would  not  fail  to  give  on  recognizing  him.  But 
that  was  not  enough  to  make  him  sleep  in  an  impru- 
dent security  on  saying  to  himself  that  this  meeting  was 

[210] 


CONSCIENCE 

improbable.  It  was  improbable,  also,  to  admit  that 
some  one  was  exactly  opposite  to  Caffi^'s  window  at 
the  moment  when  he  drew  the  curtains;  more  improb- 
able yet  to  believe  that  this  fact,  insignificant  in  itself, 
that  this  vision,  lasting  only  an  instant,  would  be  so 
solidly  engraved  in  a  woman's  memory  as  to  be  dis- 
tinctly remembered  after  several  months,  as  if  it  dated 
from  the  previous  evening;  and  yet,  of  all  these  im- 
probabilities, there  was  formed  a  reality  which  enclosed 
him  in  such  a  way  that  at  any  moment  it  might  stifle 
him. 

Despite  the  importunities  of  Phillis,  Madame  Cor- 
mier, and  Nougar^de,  and  of  all  those  which  might 
arise,  he  would  not  be  fool  enough  to  confront  the 
danger  of  a  recognition  in  the  room  where  this  para- 
lytic was  confined — at  least,  that  was  probable,  for, 
after  what  had  happened,  he  was  certain  of  nothing — 
but  this  recognition  might  take  place  elsewhere. 

In  Nougarede's  plan  Madame  Dammauville  would 
come  to  court  to  make  her  declaration ;  he  himself  was 
a  witness;  they  would,  therefore,  at  a  given  moment, 
meet  each  other,  and  it  was  not  impossible  that  before 
the  court  the  recognition  would  occur  with  a  coup  de 
thidtre  very  different  from  that  arranged  by  Nouga- 
r^de. 

Without  doubt  there  were  chances  that  Madame 
Dammauville  would  not  be  able  to  leave  her  bed  to  go 
to  court ;  but  were  there  only  one  for  her  leaving  it,  he 
must  foresee  it  and  take  precautions. 

A  single  one  offered  security:  to  render  himself  un- 
recognizable; to  cut  his  beard  and  hair;  to  be  no  more 

[211] 


HECTOR  MALOT 

the  long-haired,  curled,  blond-bearded  man  that  she 
remembered.  Had  he  been  like  every  one  else  she 
would  not  have  remarked  him;  or,  at  least,  she  would 
have  confounded  him  with  others.  A  man  can  only 
permit  himself  to  be  original  in  appearance  when  he  is 
sure  beforehand  that  he  will  never  have  anything  to 
fear. 

Assuredly,  nothing  was  easier  than  to  have  his  hair 
and  beard  cut;  he  had  only  to  enter  the  first  barber 
shop  he  came  to ;  in  a  few  minutes  the  change  would  be 
radical. 

Among  his  acquaintances  he  need  not  be  uneasy  at 
the  curiosity  that  this  change  might  produce;  more 
than  one  would  not  remark  it,  and  those  who  would  be 
surprised  at  first  would  soon  cease  to  think  of  it,  without 
doubt ;  otherwise,  he  had  an  easy  answer  for  them ;  on 
the  eve  of  becoming  a  serious  personage,  he  abandoned 
the  last  eccentricities  of  the  old  student,  and  passed  the 
bridge  without  wish  to  return  by  the  left  bank. 

But  it  was  not  only  to  acquaintances  that  he  must 
account;  there  were  Phillis  and  Nougarede.  Had  not 
the  latter  already  remarked  the  resemblance  between 
him  and  the  description,  and  would  it  not  be  imprudent 
to  lead  him  to  ask  why  this  resemblance  suddenly  dis- 
appeared ? 

It  would  be  dangerous  to  expose  himself  to  this  ques- 
tion from  the  lawyer,  but  it  would  be  much  more  dan- 
gerous coming  from  Phillis.  Nougarfede  would  only 
show  surprise;  Phillis  might  ask  for  an  explanation. 

And  he  must  reply  to  her  so  much  the  more  clearly, 
because  four    or  five  times  already  he    had    almost 

[212] 


CONSCIENCE 

betrayed  himself  as  to  Madame  Dammauville,  and  if 
she  had  let  his  explanations  or  embarrassment  pass, 
his  hesitations  or  his  refusal,  without  questioning  him 
frankly,  certainly  she  was  not  the  less  astonished. 
Should  he  appear  before  her  with  short  hair  and  no 
beard,  it  would  be  a  new  astonishment  which,  added  to 
the  others,  would  establish  suspicions;  and  logically, 
by  the  force  of  things,  in  spite  of  herself,  in  spite  of  her 
love  and  her  faith,  she  would  arrive  at  conclusions  from 
which  she  would  not  be  able  to  free  herself.  Already, 
five  or  sLx  months  before,  this  question  of  long  hair  and 
beard  had  been  agitated  between  them.  As  he  com- 
plained one  day  of  the  bourgeois  who  would  not  come 
to  him,  she  gently  explained  to  him  that  to  please  and 
attract  these  bourgeois  it  was,  perhaps,  not  quite  well  to 
astonish  those  whom  one  does  not  shock.  That  over- 
coats less  long,  hats  with  less  brim,  and  hair  and 
beard  shorter;  in  fact,  a  general  appearance  that  more 
nesirly  approached  their  own,  would  be,  perhaps,  more 
agreeable.  He  became  angry,  and  replied  plainly  that 
such  concessions  were  not  in  keeping  with  his  charac- 
ter. How  could  he  now  abruptly  make  these  conces- 
sions, and  at  a  time  when  his  success  at  the  examinations 
placed  him  above  such  small  compromises?  He  re- 
sisted when  he  needed  help,  and  when  a  patient  was  an 
affair  of  life  or  death  to  him;  he  yielded  when  he  had 
need  of  no  one,  and  when  he  did  not  care  for  patients. 
The  contradiction  was  truly  too  strong,  and  such  that 
it  could  not  but  strike  Phillis,  whose  attention  had 
already  had  only  too  much  to  arouse  it. 
And  yet,  as  dangerous  as  it  was  to  come  to  the  deci- 
[213] 


HECTOR  MALOT 

sion  to  make  himself  unrecognizable,  it  would  be  mad- 
ness on  his  part  to  draw  back;  the  sooner  the  better. 
His  fault  had  been  in  not  foreseeing,  the  day  after  Caf- 
fie's  death,  that  circumstances  might  arise  sooner  or 
later  which  would  force  it  upon  him.  At  that  moment 
it  did  not  present  the  same  dangers  as  now;  but  part- 
ing from  the  idea  that  he  had  not  been  seen  by  any  one, 
that  he  could  not  have  been  seen,  he  had  rejoiced  in 
the  security  that  this  conviction  gave  him,  and  quietly 
become  benumbed. 

The  awakening  had  come;  with  his  eyes  open  he 
saw  the  abyss  to  the  edge  of  which  his  stupidity  had 
brought  him. 

How  strong  would  he  not  be  if  during  the  last  three 
months  he  had  not  had  this  long  hair  and  beard,  which 
was  most  terrible  testimony  against  him?  Instead  of 
taking  refuge  in  miserable  makeshifts  when  Phillis  and 
Nougarede  asked  him  to  see  Madame  Dammauville,  he 
would  have  boldly  held  his  own,  and  have  gone  to  see 
her  as  they  wished.  In  that  case  he  would  be  saved,  and 
soon  Florentin  would  be  also. 

And  he  believed  himself  intelligent !  And  he  proudly 
imagined  he  could  arrange  things  beforehand  so  well 
that  he  would  never  be  surprised !  What  he  should  have 
foreseen  would  come  to  pass,  nothing  more ;  the  lesson 
that  experience  taught  him  was  hard,  and  this  was  not 
the  first  one ;  the  evening  of  Caffie's  death  he  saw  very 
clearly  that  a  new  situation  opened  before  him,  which 
to  the  end  of  his  life  would  make  him  the  prisoner  of 
his  crime.  To  tell  the  truth,  however,  this  impression 
became  faint  soon  enough;   but  now  it  was  stronger 

[214] 


CONSCIENCE 

than  ever,  and  to  a  certainty,  never  to  be  dismissed 
again. 

But  it  was  useless  to  look  behind;  it  was  the  present 
and  the  future  that  he  must  measure  with  a  clear  and 
firm  glance,  if  he  did  not  wish  to  be  lost. 

After  carefully  examining  and  weighing  the  question, 
he  decided  to  have  his  hair  and  beard  cut.  However 
adventurous  this  resolution  was,  however  embarrassing 
it  might  become  in  provoking  curiosity  and  questions,  it 
was  the  only  way  of  escaping  a  possible  recognition. 

Mechanically,  by  habit,  he  bent  his  steps  toward  the 
Rue  Neuve-des-Petits-Champs,  where  his  barber  lived,  <;■ 
but  he  had  taken  only  a  few  steps  when  reflection  >p 
caused  him  to  stop;  it  would  be  certainly  a  mistake 
to  provoke  the  gossip  of  this  man  who  knew  him,  and 
who,  for  the  pleasure  of  talking,  would  tell  every  one  in 
the  quarter  that  he  had  just  cut  the  hair  and  beard  of 
Dr.  Saniel.  He  returned  to  the  boulevard,  where  he 
was  not  known. 

But  as  he  was  about  to  open  the  door  of  the  shop 
which  he  decided  to  enter,  he  changed  his  mind.  He 
happened  to  find  the  explanation  that  he  must  give 
Phillis,  and  as  he  wished  to  avoid  the  surprise  that  she 
would  not  fail  to  show  if  she  saw  him  suddenly  without 
hair  and  beard,  he  would  give  this  explanation  before 
having  them  cut,  in  such  a  way  that  all  at  once  and 
without  looking  for  another  reason,  she  would  under- 
stand that  this  operation  was  indispensable. 

And  he  went  to  dinner,  furious  with  himself  and  with 
things,  to  see  to  what  miserable  expedients  he  was 
reduced. 

["5] 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

SANIEL  VISITS  A  BARBER 

[E  following  day  at  five  o'clock  when 
Phillis  rang,  he  opened  the  door  for 
her.  Hardly  had  she  entered  when 
she  was  about  to  throw  herself  into  his 
arms  as  usual,  with  a  quickness  that 
told  how  happy  she  was  to  see  him. 
But  he  checked  her  with  his  hand. 
"What  is  the  matter?"  she  asked 
paralyzed  and  full  of  fears. 

"Nothing;  or,  at  least  nothing  much." 
"Against  me?" 
"  Certainly  not,  dear  one." 
"You  are  ill?" 

"No,  not  ill,  but  I  must  take  precautions  which  pre- 
vent me  from  embracing  you.  I  will  explain;  do  not  be 
uneasy,  it  is  not  serious." 

"Quick!"  she  cried,  examining  him,  and  trying  to 
anticipate  his  thought. 

"You  have  something  to  tell  me  ?" 
"Yes,  good  news.     But  I  beg  of  you,  speak  first;  do 
not  leave  me  in  suspense." 

"I  assure  you  that  you  need  not  be  uneasy;  and  when 
I  speak  thus,  you  know  that  you  should  believe  me. 
You  see  that  I  am  not  uneasy." 

[216] 


CONSCIENCE 

"It  is  for  others  that  you  are  alarmed,  never  for 
yourself." 

"Do  you  know  what  the  pelagre  is ? " 

"No." 

"It  is  a  special  disease  of  the  hair  and  beard,  due  to 
the  presence  in  the  epidermis  of  a  kind  of  mushroom. 
Well,  it  is  probable  that  I  have  this  disease." 

"Is  it  serious?" 

"Troublesome  for  a  man,  but  disastrous  for  a  woman, 
because,  before  any  treatment,  the  hair  must  be  cut. 
You  understand,  therefore,  that  if  I  have  the  pelagre,  as 
I  believe  I  have,  I  am  not  going  to  expose  you  to  the  risk 
of  catching  it  in  embracing  you.  It  is  very  easily  trans- 
mitted, and  in  that  case  you  would  be  obliged,  probably, 
to  do  for  yourself  what  I  must  do  for  myself;  that  is,  to 
cut  my  hair.  With  me  it  is  of  no  consequence ;  but  with 
you  it  would  be  murder  to  sacrifice  your  beautiful  hair." 

"You  say  'probably.'  " 

"Because  I  am  not  yet  quite  certain  that  I  have  the 
pelagre.  For  about  two  weeks  I  have  felt  a  slight  itch- 
ing in  my  head  and,  naturally,  I  paid  no  attention  to  it. 
I  had  other  things  to  do;  and  besides,  I  was  not  going 
♦o  believe  I  was  attacked  with  a  parasitic  malady  merely 
on  account  of  an  itching.  But,  after  some  time,  my 
hair  became  dry  and  began  to  fall  out.  I  had  no  time 
to  attend  to  it,  and  the  days  passed;  besides,  the  ex- 
citement of  my  examinations  was  enough  to  make  my 
hair  fall.  To-day,  just  before  you  came,  I  had  a  few 
minutes  to  spare,  and  I  examined  one  of  my  hairs 
through  a  microscope;  if  I  had  not  been  disturbed  I 
should  have  finished  by  this  time." 

[217] 


HECTOR  MALOT 

"Continue  your  examination." 

"It  would  take  some  time  to  do  it  thoroughly.  If 
it  is  really  the  pelagre,  as  I  have  reason  to  believe,  to- 
morrow you  will  see  me  without  hair  and  beard.  I 
would  not  hesitate,  in  spite  of  the  astonishment  that 
my  appearance  would  cause." 

"What  good  will  that  do?" 

"I  cannot  tell  people  that  I  had  my  hair  and  beard 
cut  because  I  have  a  parasitic  disease.  Every  one 
knows  it  is  contagious." 

"When  the  hair  is  cut,  what  will  be  come  of  the  dis- 
ease?" 

"With  energetic  treatment  it  will  rapidly  disappear. 
Before  long  you  may  embrace  me  if — ^you  do  not  find 
•me  too  ugly." 

"O  dearest!" 

"And  now  for  you;  you  have  come  from  Madame 
Dammauville  ?  " 

He  did  not  need  to  persist;  Phillis  accepted  his  story 
so  readily  that  he  felt  reassured  on  her  side;  she  would 
not  alarm  herself  about  it.  As  for  others,  the  embar- 
rassment of  confessing  a  contagious  malady  would  be 
a  sufficient  explanation,  if  he  were  ever  obliged  to  fur- 
nish one. 

"What  did  she  say  to  you ? "  he  asked. 

"Good  and  kind  words  to  begin  with,  which  show 
what  an  excellent  woman  she  is.  After  having  pre- 
sented myself  twice  at  her  house  yesterday,  you  under- 
stand that  I  was  not  quite  easy  on  asking  her  to  receive 
me  again  to-day.  As  I  tried  to  excuse  myself,  she  said 
she  was  glad  to  see  my  devotion  to  my  brother,  that  I 

[218] 


CONSCIENCE 

need  never  excuse  myself  for  asking  her  assistance,  and 
that  she  would  help  me  all  she  could.  With  this  en- 
couragemeat  I  explained  what  we  want  her  to  do,  but 
she  did  not  appear  disposed  to  do  it.  Without  giving 
her  Monsieur  Nougarede's  reasons,  I  said  we  were 
obliged  to  conform  to  the  counsels  of  those  who  directed 
the  affair,  and  I  begged  her  to  help  us.  Finally  she  was 
won  over,  but  reluctantly,  and  said  she  would  do  as  we 
wished.  But  she  could  not  assure  me  that  her  servants 
had  not  talked  about  it,  nor  could  she  promise  to  leave 
her  bed  to  go  to  court,  for  she  had  not  left  her  room  for 
a  year." 

"Does  she  expect  to  be  able  to  rise  soon ? " 

"I  repeat  her  words,  to  which  I  paid  great  attention 
in  order  not  to  forget  them : '  I  am  promised  that  I  shall 
be  better  next  year,  but  who  can  tell  ?  I  will  urge  my 
doctor  to  give  me  an  answer,  and  when  you  come  again 
I  will  tell  you  what  he  says.'  Profiting  by  the  door  that 
she  opened  to  me,  I  kept  the  conversation  on  this  doctor. 
It  seems  to  me,  but  I  am  not  certain,  that  she  has  but 
little  confidence  in  him.  He  was  the  classmate  of  her 
husband  and  of  her  brother-in-law  the  notary;  he  is  the 
friend  of  every  one,  curing  those  who  can  be  cured,  or 
letting  them  die  by  accident.  You  see  what  kind  of  a 
doctor  he  is." 

"I  told  you  I  knew  him." 

"See  if  I  deceive  myself,  and  to  what  I  tell  you,  add 
what  you  already  know.  Frightened  to  see  in  whose 
hands  she  is,  I  undertook  to  find  out,  and  finished  by 
learning — without  asking  her  directly — that  she  has  seen 
no  other  physician  during  the  year.  When  she  was  taken 

[219] 


HECTOR  MALOT 

with  paralysis  a  consultation  was  held,  and  she  has  had 
Doctor  Balzajette  ever  since.  She  says  he  is  very  kind, 
and  takes  care  of  her  as  well  as  another  would." 

Saniel  improved  the  opportunity  to  refer  to  his  stu- 
pidity in  frankly  expressing  his  opinion  on  the  solemn 
Balzajette. 

"It  is  probable,"  he  said. 

"It  is  certain?  Do  you  believe  that  during  one  year 
nothing  has  appeared  in  Madame  Dammauville's  dis- 
ease that  should  demand  new  treatment  ?  Do  you  think 
the  solemn  Balzajette  is  incapable  of  finding  it  all  by 
himself?" 

"He  is  not  so  dull  as  you  suppose." 

"It  is  you  who  speak  of  dulness." 

"To  diagnose  a  disease  and  to  treat  it  are  two  things. 
It  is  the  consultation  you  speak  of  that  settled  the 
question  of  Madame  Dammauville's  disease,  and  pre- 
scribed the  treatment  that  Balzajette  had  only  to  apply; 
and  his  capacity,  I  assure  you,  is  sufficient  for  this  task." 

As  she  appeared  but  little  reassured,  he  persisted,  for  it 
would  be  an  imprudence  to  let  Phillis  become  enamored 
of  the  idea  that  if  he  attended  Madame  Dammau- 
ville,  he  would  cure  her,  even  if  it  required  a  miracle. 

"We  have  some  time  before  us,  since  the  ordonnance 
de  renvoi  before  the  assizes  is  not  yet  given  out.  Ma- 
dame Dammauville  has  promised  to  question  her  doc- 
tor, to  learn  if  he  hopes  to  put  her  in  condition  to  leave 
her  bed  soon.     Let  us  wait,  therefore." 

"Would  it  not  be  better  to  act  than  to  wait ?" 

"At  least  let  us  wait  for  news  from  Balzajette.  Either 
it  will  be  satisfactory,  and  then  we  shall  have  nothing 

[  220  ] 


CONSCIENCE 

to  do,  or  it  will  not  be,  and  in  that  case  I  promise  you 
to  see  Balzajette.  I  know  him  well  enough  to  speak  to 
him  of  your  patient,  which,  above  all,  enables  me,  in 
making  your  brother  intervene,  to  interest  myself  openly 
in  his  reestablishment." 

"O  dearest,  dearest!"  she  murmured,  in  a  spirit  of 
gratitude, 

"You  cannot  doubt  my  devotion  to  you  first,  and  to 
your  brother  afterward.  You  asked  me  an  impossible 
thing,  that  I  was  obliged  to  refuse,  to  my  regret,  pre- 
cisely because  it  was  impossible;  but  you  know  that  I 
am  yours,  and  will  do  all  I  can  for  your  family." 

"Forgive  me." 

"I  have  nothing  to  forgive;  in  your  place  I  should 
think  as  you  do,  but  I  believe  that  in  mine  you  would 
act  as  I  do." 

"Be  sure  that  I  have  never  had  an  idea  of  blame  in 
my  heart  for  what  is  with  you  an  affair  of  dignity.  It 
is  because  you  are  high  and  proud  that  I  love  you  so 
passionately." 

She  rose. 

"Are  you  going?"  he  asked. 

"I  want  to  carry  Madame  Dammauville's  words  to 
mamma;  you  can  imagine  with  what  anguish  she  awaits 
me." 

"  Let  us  go.  I  will  leave  you  at  the  boulevard  to  go 
to  see  Nougarede." 

The  interview  with  the  advocate  was  short. 

"You  see,  dear  friend,  that  my  plan  is  good;  bring 
Madame  Dammauville  to  court,  and  we  shall  have  some 
pleasant  moments." 

[221] 


HECTOR  MALOT 

This  time  Saniel  had  not  the  hesitation  of  the  previous 
evening,  and  he  entered  the  first  barber-shop  he  saw. 
When  he  returned  to  his  rooms  he  Hghted  two  candles, 
and  placing  them  on  the  mantle,  he  looked  at  himself 
in  the  glass. 

Coquetry  had  never  been  his  sin,  and  often  weeks 
passed  without  his  looking  in  a  mirror,  so  indifferent 
was  he  when  making  his  toilet.  However,  as  a  young 
boy  he  sometimes  looked  in  his  small  glass,  asking  him- 
self what  he  would  become,  and  he  could  now  recall  his 
looks — an  energetic  face  with  clearly  drawn  features,  a 
physiognomy  open  and  frank,  without  being  pretty,  but 
not  disagreeable.  His  beard  had  concealed  all  this; 
but  now  that  it  was  gone,  he  said  to  himself  without 
much  reflection  that  he  would  find  again,  without 
doubt,  the  boy  he  remembered. 

What  he  saw  in  the  glass  was  a  forehead  lined  trans- 
versely; oblique  eyebrows,  raised  at  the  inside  extremity, 
and  a  mouth  with  tightened  lips  turned  down  at  the 
comers;  furrows  were  hollowed  in  the  cheeks;  and  the 
whole  physiognomy,  harassed,  ravaged,  expressed  hard- 
ness. 

What  had  become  of  that  of  the  young  man  of  other 
days?  He  had  before  him  the  man  that  life  had  made, 
and  of  whom  the  violent  contractions  of  the  muscles  of 
the  face  had  modelled  the  expression. 

"  Truly,  the  mouth  of  an  assassin ! "  he  murmured. 

Then,  looking  at  his  shaved  head,  he  added  with  a 
smile: 

"And  perhaps  that  of  one  condemned  to  death,  whose 
toilet  has  just  been  made  for  the  guillotine." 

[  222  ] 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

A  BROKEN  NEGATIVE 

[O  have  made  himself  unrecognizable 
was,  without  doubt,  a  safe  precaution; 
but  having  started  on  this  course,  he 
would  not  be  easy  until  he  had  de- 
stroyed all  traces  of  himself  in  such  a 
way  that  Madame  Dammauville  would 
never  be  able  to  find  the  man  that  she 
had  seen  so  clearly  under  Caffie's  lamp. 
Precisely  because  he  was  not  vain  and  had  no  pre- 
tension to  beauty,  he  had  escaped  the  photograph 
mania.  Once  only  he  had  been  photographed  in  spite 
of  himself,  simply  to  oblige  a  classmate  who  had  aban- 
doned medicine  for  photography. 

But  now  this  once  was  too  much,  for  there  was  danger 
that  this  portrait  taken  three  years  before,  and  showing 
him  with  the  hair  and  beard  that  he  wished  to  suppress, 
might  be  discovered.  Without  doubt  there  were  few 
chances  that  a  copy  of  it  would  be  seen  by  Madame 
Dammauville;  but  if  there  existed  only  one  against  a 
hundred  thousand,  he  must  arrange  it  so  that  he  need 
have  no  fear. 

He  had  had  a  dozen  copies  of  this  photograph,  but 
as  his  relatives  were  few,  he  kept  the  majority  of  them. 
One  he  sent  to  his  mother,  who  was  living  at  that  time; 

[^^3  2 


HECTOR  MALOT 

another  went  to  the  priest  of  his  village,  and  later  he 
had  given  one  to  Phillis.  He  must,  then,  have  nine  in 
his  possession.  He  found  them  and  burned  them  im- 
mediately. 

Of  the  three  that  remained,  only  one  might  testify 
against  him,  the  one  belonging  to  Phillis.  But  it  would 
be  easy  for  him  to  get  it  again  on  inventing  some  pre- 
text, wh'le  as  to  the  others,  truly  he  had  nothing  to  fear. 

The  real  danger  might  come  from  the  photographer, 
who  perhaps  had  some  of  the  photographs,  and  who 
undoubtedly  preserved  the  negative.  This  was  his  first 
errand  the  next  day. 

On  entering  the  studio  of  this  friend,  he  experienced  a 
disagreeable  feeling,  which  troubled  him  and  made  him 
uneasy;  he  had  not  given  his  name,  and  counting  on  the 
change  made  by  the  cutting  of  his  hair  and  beard,  he 
said  to  himself  that  his  friend,  who  had  not  seen  him  for 
a  long  time,  certainly  would  not  recognize  him. 

He  had  taken  but  a  few  steps,  his  hat  in  his  hand,  like 
a  stranger  who  is  about  to  accost  another,  when  the  pho- 
tographer came  toward  him  with  outstretched  hand,  and 
a  friendly  smile  on  his  face. 

"You,  my  dear  friend!  What  good  fortune  is  worth 
the  pleasure  of  your  visit  to  me  ?  Can  I  be  useful  to  you 
in  any  way?" 

"You  recognize  me,  then?" 

"What!  Do  I  recognize  you ?  Do  you  ask  that  be- 
cause you  have  cut  your  hair  and  beard  ?  Certainly  it 
changes  you  and  gives  you  a  new  physiognomy;  but  I 
should  be  unworthy  of  my  business  if,  by  a  different 
arrangement  of  the  hair,  I  could  not  recognize  you. 

[224] 


CONSCIENCE 

Besides,  eyes  of  steel  like  yours  are  not  forgotten;  they 
are  a  description  and  a  signature." 

Then  this  means  in  which  he  placed  so  much  confi- 
dence was  only  a  new  imprudence,  as  the  question, 
"You  recognize  me,  then?"  was  a  mistake. 

"Come,  I  will  pose  you  at  once,"  the  photographer 
said.  "Very  curious,  this  shaved  head,  and  still  more 
interesting,  I  think,  than  with  the  beard  and  long  hair. 
The  traits  of  character  are  more  clearly  seen." 

"It  is  not  for  a  new  portrait  that  I  have  come,  but  for 
the  old  one.    Have  you  any  of  the  proofs  ? ' ' 

"I  think  not,  but  I  will  see.  In  any  case,  if  you  wish 
some  they  are  easily  made,  since  I  have  the  plate." 

"Will  you  look  them  up?  For  I  have  not  a  single 
proof  left  of  those  you  gave  me,  and  on  looking  at  myself 
in  the  glass  this  morning  I  found  such  changes  between 
my  face  of  to-day  and  that  of  three  years  ago,  that  I 
would  like  to  study  them.  Certain  ideas  came  to  me 
on  the  expression  of  the  physiognomy,  that  I  wish  to 
study,  with  something  to  support  them." 

The  search  for  the  proofs  made  by  an  assistant  led 
to  no  results;  there  were  no  proofs. 

"Exactly;  and  for  several  days  I  have  thought  of 
making  some,"  the  photographer  said.  "Because  your 
day  of  glory  will  come,  when  your  portrait  will  be  in  a 
distinguished  place  in  the  shop- windows  and  collections. 
Every  one  talks  of  your  concours.  Although  I  have 
abandoned  medicine  without  the  wish  to  return  to  it, 
I  have  not  become  indifferent  to  what  concerns  it,  and 
I  learned  of  your  success.  Which  portrait  shall  we  put 
in  circulation  ?  The  old  or  the  new  ?  " 
15  [225] 


HECTOR  MALOT 

"The  new." 

"Then  let  us  arrange  the  pose." 

"Not  to-day;  it  is  only  yesterday  that  I  was  shaved, 
fearing  an  attack  of  pelagre,  and  the  skin  covered  by 
the  beard  has  a  crude  whiteness  that  will  accentuate  the 
hardness  of  my  physiognomy,  which  is  really  useless. 
We  will  wait  until  the  air  has  tanned  me  a  little,  and 
then  I  will  return,  I  promise  you." 

' '  How  many  proofs  do  you  want  of  your  old  portrait  ? ' ' 

"One  will  do." 

"I  will  send  you  a  dozen." 

"  Do  not  take  the  trouble ;  I  will  take  them  when  I  come 
to  pose.  But  in  the  mean  time,  could  you  not  show  me 
the  plate?" 

"Nothing  easier." 

When  it  was  brought,  Saniel  took  the  glass  plate  with 
great  care,  holding  it  with  the  tips  of  his  fingers  by  the 
two  opposite  comers,  in  order  not  to  efface  the  portrait. 
Then,  as  he  was  standing  in  the  shadow  of  a  blue  cur- 
tain, he  walked  towards  the  chimney  where  the  light  was 
strong,  and  began  his  examination. 

"It  is  very  good,"  he  said;  "very  curious." 

'  *  O  nly  a  photograph  can  have  this  documentary  value. ' ' 

To  compare  this  document  with  the  reality,  Saniel 
approached  the  chimney  more  closely,  above  which  was 
a  mirror.  When  his  feet  touched  the  marble  hearth  he 
stopped,  looking  alternately  at  the  plate  which  he  held 
carefully  in  his  hands,  and  at  his  face  reflected  in  the 
glass.  Suddenly  he  made  an  exclamation;  he  let  fall 
the  plate,  which,  falling  flat  on  the  marble,  broke  into 
little  pieces  that  flew  here  and  there. 

[  226  ] 


CONSCIENCE 

"  How  awkward  I  am ! " 

He  showed  a  vexation  that  should  not  leave  the  small- 
est doubt  in  the  photographer's  mind  as  to  its  truth. 

"  You  must  get  one  of  the  proofs  that  you  have  given 
away,"  his  friend  said,"  for  I  have  not  a  single  one  left." 

"I  will  try  and  find  one." 

What  he  did  try  to  find  on  leaving  was  whether  or 
no  he  had  succeeded  in  rendering  himself  unrecogniza- 
ble, for  he  could  not  trust  to  this  experience,  weakened 
by  the  fact  that  this  old  friend  was  a  photographer. 
With  him  it  was  a  matter  of  business  to  note  the  typ- 
ical traits  that  distinguish  one  face  from  another,  and  in 
a  long  practice  he  had  acquired  an  accuracy  Madame 
Dammauville  could  not  possess. 

Among  the  persons  he  knew,  it  seemed  to  him  that 
the  one  in  the  best  condition  to  give  certainty  to  the 
proof  was  Madame  Cormier.  He  knew  at  this  hour 
she  would  be  alone,  and  as  she  had  not  been,  assuredly, 
warned  by  her  daughter  that  he  intended  to  shave,  the 
experijnent  would  be  presented  in  a  way  to  give  a  result 
as  exact  as  possible. 

In  answer  to  his  ring  Madame  Cormier  opened  the 
door,  and  he  saluted  her  without  being  recognized ;  but  as 
the  hall  was  dark  this  was  not  of  great  significance.  His 
hat  in  his  hand,  he  followed  her  into  the  dining-room  with- 
out speaking,  in  order  that  his  voice  should  not  betray  him . 

Then,  after  she  had  looked  at  him  a  moment,  with 
uneasy  surprise  at  first,  she  began  to  smile. 

"  It  is  Doctor  Saniel!"  she  cried.  "MonDieu!  How 
stupid  of  me  not  to  recognize  you;  it  changes  you  so 
much  to  be  shaved !    Pardon  me." 

[227] 


HECTOR  MALOT 

"It  is  because  I  am  shaved  that  I  come  to  ask  a 
favor." 

"Of  us,  my  dear  sir?  Ah!  Speak  quickly;  we 
should  be  so  happy  to  prove  our  gratitude." 

"I  would  ask  Mademoiselle  Phillis  to  give  me,  if  she 
has  it,  a  photograph  that  I  gave  her  about  a  year  ago." 

As  Phillis  wished  the  liberty  to  expose  this  photo- 
graph frankly,  in  order  to  have  it  always  before  her,  she 
had  asked  for  it,  and  Saniel  had  given  it  to  her,  in  her 
mother's  presence. 

"If  she  has  it!"  exclaimed  Mme.  Cormier.  "Ah! 
my  dear  sir,  you  do  not  know  the  place  that  all  your 
goodness,  and  the  services  that  you  have  rendered  us, 
have  made  for  you  in  our  hearts." 

And  passing  into  the  next  room,  she  brought  a  small 
velvet  frame  in  which  was  the  photograph.  Saniel  took 
it  out,  on  explaining  the  study  for  which  he  wanted  it, 
and  after  promising  to  bring  it  back  soon,  he  returned 
to  his  rooms. 

Decidedly,  everything  was  going  well.  The  plate  was 
destroyed,  Phillis's  proof  in  his  hands;  he  had  nothing 
more  to  fear  from  this  side.  As  to  the  experiment  made 
on  the  mother,  it  was  decisive  enough  to  inspire  him 
with  confidence.  If  Madame  Cormier,  who  had  seen 
him  so  often  and  for  so  long  a  time,  and  who  thought 
of  him  at  every  instant,  did  not  recognize  him,  how  was 
it  possible  that  Madame  Dammauville,  who  had  only 
seen  him  from  a  distance  and  for  a  few  seconds,  could 
recognize  him  after  several  months  ? 

Would  he  never  accustom  himself  to  the  idea  that  his 
life  could  not  have  the  tranquil  monotony  of  a  bourgeois 

[228] 


CONSCIENCE 

existence,  that  it  would  experience  shocks  and  storms, 
but  that  if  he  knew  how  to  remain  always  master  of  his 
force  and  will,  it  would  bring  him  to  a  safe  port  ? 

The  calm  that  was  his  before  this  vexation  came 
back  to  him,  and  when  the  last  proofs  of  his  concours, 
confirming  the  success  of  the  first,  had  given  him  the 
two  titles  that  he  so  ardently  desired  and  pursued  at  the 
price  of  so  many  pains,  so  many  efforts  and  privations, 
he  could  enjoy  his  triumph  in  all  security. 

He  held  the  present  in  his  strong  hands,  and  the  fu- 
ture was  his. 

Now  he  could  walk  straight,  boldly,  his  head  high, 
jostling  those  who  annoyed  him,  according  to  his  nat- 
ural temperament. 

Although  these  last  months  had  been  full  of  terrible 
agitation  for  him,  on  account  of  everything  connected 
with  the  affair  of  Caifi^  and  Florentin,  and  above  all, 
on  account  of  the  fatigue,  emotion,  and  the  fever  of  his 
concours,  yet  he  had  not  interrupted  his  special  works 
for  a  day  or  even  an  hour,  and  his  experiments  fol- 
lowed for  so  many  years  had  at  length  produced  impor- 
tant results,  that  prudence  alone  prevented  him  from 
publishing.  In  opposition  to  the  official  teaching  of  the 
school,  these  discoveries  would  have  caused  the  hair  to 
stand  upright  on  the  old  heads;  and  it  was  not  the  time, 
when  he  asked  permission  to  enter,  to  draw  upon  him- 
self the  hostility  of  these  venerable  doorkeepers,  who 
would  bar  the  way  to  a  revolutionist.  But,  now  that  he 
was  in  the  place  for  ten  or  twelve  years,  he  need  take 
no  precautions,  either  for  persons  or  for  ideas,  and  he 
might  speak. 

[  229  ] 


CHAPTER  XXX 

PHILLIS  PRECIPITATES  MATTERS 

^ANIEL  saw  his  colleague,  the  solemn 
Balzajette,  and  so  adroitly  as  not  to 
provoke  surprise  or  suspicion,  he  spoke 
of  Madame  Dammauville,  in  whom 
he  was  interested  incidentally;  with- 
out persisting,  and  only  to  justify  his 
question,  he  explained  the  nature  of 
this  interest. 

Although  solemn,  Balzajette  was  not  the  less  a 
gossip,  and  it  was  his  solemnity  that  made  him  gos- 
sip. He  listened  to  himself  talk,  and  when,  his  chest 
bulging,  his  pink  chin  freshly  shaved  resting  on  his 
white  cravat,  his  be-ringed  hand  describing  in  the 
air  noble  and  demonstrative  gestures,  one  could,  if  one 
had  the  patience  to  listen  to  him,  make  him  say  all  that 
one  wished;  for  he  was  convinced  that  his  interlocutor 
passed  an  agreeable  moment,  whose  remembrance 
would  never  be  forgotten.  His  patients  might  wait  in 
pain  or  anguish,  he  did  not  hasten  the  majestic  delivery 
of  his  high-sounding  phrases  with  choice  adjectives; 
and  unless  it  was  to  go  to  a  dinner-party,  which  he  did 
at  least  five  days  in  the  week,  he  could  not  leave  you  un- 
til after  he  had  made  you  partake  of  the  admiration  that 
he  professed  for  himself. 

[230] 


CONSCIENCE 

It  was  to  an  affection  of  the  spinal  cord  that  Mme. 
Dammauville's  paralysis  was  due,  and  consequently  it 
was  perfectly  curable;  even  Balzajette  was  astonished 
that  with  his  treatment  and  his  care  the  cure  was  de- 
layed. 

"But  what  shall  I  say  to  you,  young  conjrhre?  You 
know  better  than  I  that  with  women  everything  is  pos- 
sible— above  all  the  impossible." 

And  during  a  half-hour  he  complaisantly  related  the 
astonishment  that  the  fashionable  women  under  his  care 
had  caused  him,  in  spite  of  his  knowledge  and  experi- 
ence. 

"Well,  to  resume,  what  shall  I  tell  you,  young  con- 
jrhre?'' 

And  he  repeated  and  explained  what  he  had  already 
said  and  explained. 

Although  Balzajette  read  only  a  morning  paper,  and 
never  opened  a  book,  he  had  heard  of  Saniel's  reputa- 
tion, and  because  he  was  young  he  thought  he  might 
manage  this  conjrhre,  who  seemed  destined  to  make  a 
good  position.  In  spite  of  the  high  esteem  that  he  pro- 
fessed for  his  own  merits  and  person,  he  vaguely  felt 
that  the  doctors  of  his  generation  who  were  eminent 
did  not  treat  him  with  all  the  consideration  that  he  ac- 
corded himself,  and  in  order  to  teach  his  ancient  com- 
rades a  lesson,  he  was  glad  to  enter  into  friendly  rela- 
tions with  a  young  one  dans  le  mouvement.  He  would 
speak  of  his  young  conjrhre  Saniel:  "You  know  the 
one  who  was  appointed  agrigi''  and  he  would  relate 
the  advice  that  he,  Balzajette,  had  given  him. 

That  Madame  Dammauville  would  be  well  enough  to 
[231] 


HECTOR  MALOT 

go  to  court  Saniel  doubted,  above  all,  after  Balzajette 
had  explained  his  treatment;  and  as  far  as  he  was  con- 
cerned, he  could  not  but  rejoice.  Doubtless,  it  would 
be  hard  for  Florentin  not  to  have  this  testimony,  and 
not  to  profit  by  the  coup  de  theatre  prepared  by  Nou- 
gar^de;  but  for  himself,  he  could  only  feel  happy  over 
it.  In  spite  of  all  the  precautions  he  had  taken,  it  would 
be  better  not  to  expose  himself  to  a  meeting  with  Madame 
Dammauville  in  the  witness-chamber,  or  even  in  court. 
They  must  depend  upon  a  letter  supported  by  Balza- 
jette's  deposition,  and  Florentin  would  be  not  the  less 
acquitted.  Only  Nougarede  would  have  to  regret  his 
coup  de  thedtre.  But  the  satisfaction  or  disappointment 
of  Nougarede  was  nothing  to  him. 

But  he  did  not  tell  Phillis  the  ideas  suggested  by  his 
interview  with  Balzajette;  he  summed  up  the  conclu- 
sions of  this  interview.  Balzajette  said  that  Madame 
Dammauville  would  soon  be  on  her  feet,  and  one  might 
have  faith  in  his  word;  Florentin  would  be  saved,  and 
there  was  nothing  to  do  but  to  let  things  go  on  as  they 
were  going. 

Phillis,  Madame  Cormier,  Nougarede,  Florentin  him- 
self, whom  the  Mazas  cell  had  reconciled  neither  with 
hope  nor  with  providential  justice,  were  all  delighted 
with  this  idea. 

Also,  when  the  chamber  of  the  prosecution  sent 
Florent  to  the  assizes,  the  emotion  of  Madame  Cor- 
mier and  Phillis  would  not  be  too  violent.  Madame 
Dammauville  would  be  in  a  state  to  make  her  de- 
position, since  the  evening  before  she  had  been  able 
to  leave  her  bed;  and  although  she  left  it  for  only  an 

[232] 


CONSCIENCE 

hour,  and  then  to  go  from  her  bedroom  to  her  parlor, 
that  was  enough.  Nougar^de  said  that  the  affair  would 
come  on  at  the  second  session  in  April;  between  then 
and  now  Madame  Dammauville  would  be  solid  enough 
on  her  legs  to  appear  before  the  jury  and  carry  the  ac- 
quittal. 

To  Phillis,  Saniel  repeated  that  the  cure  was  certain, 
and  to  her,  also,  he  rejoiced  aloud.  But  he  was  troubled 
about  this  cure.  This  meeting,  only  the  idea  of  which 
had  alarmed  him  to  the  point  of  losing  his  head,  would 
be  brought  about,  and  under  conditions  that  could  not 
but  affect  him.  Truly,  the  precautions  he  had  taken 
should  reassure  him,  but  after  all  there  remained  no 
less  a  troublesome  uncertainty.  Who  could  tell?  He 
preferred  that  she  should  not  leave  her  room,  and  that 
Nougar^de  should  find  a  way  to  obtain  her  deposition 
without  taking  her  to  court ;  he  would  then  feel  more  re- 
assured, more  calm  in  mind,  and  with  a  more  impassive 
face  he  could  go  to  court. 

Was  he  really  unrecognizable?  This  was  the  ques- 
tion that  beset  him  now.  Many  times  he  compared  his 
reflection  in  the  glass  with  the  photograph  that  he  had 
given  Phillis.  The  hair  and  beard  were  gone,  but  his 
eyes  of  steel,  as  his  friend  said,  still  remained,  and 
nothing  could  change  them.  He  might  wear  blue  eye- 
glasses, or  injure  himself  in  a  chemical  experiment  and 
wear  a  bandage.  But  such  a  disguise  would  provoke 
curiosity  and  questions  just  so  much  more  dangerous, 
because  it  would  coincide  with  the  disappearance  of 
his  hair  and  beard. 

But  these  fears  did  not  torment  him  long,  for  Phillis, 
[233] 


HECTOR  MALOT 

who  now  passed  a  part  of  every  day  in  the  Rue  Sainte- 
Annewith  Madame  Dammauville,  came  one  evening  in 
despair,  and  told  him  that  that  day  the  invalid  had 
been  able  to  leave  her  bed  for  a  few  minutes  only. 

Then  she  would  not  go  to  court. 

This  apprehension  of  meeting  Madame  Dammauville 
face  to  face  had  begun  to  exasperate  him ;  he  felt  like  a 
coward  in  yielding  to  it,  and  since  he  had  not  the  force 
to  shake  it  off,  he  was  happy  to  be  relieved  from  it 
by  the  intervention  of  chance,  which,  after  having 
been  against  him  so  long,  now  became  favorable. 
The  wheel  turned. 

"See  Madame  Dammauville  often,"  he  said  to 
Phillis,  "and  note  all  that  she  feels;  perhaps  I  shall 
find  some  way  to  repair  this  impediment,  something 
that  I  may  suggest  to  Balzajette  without  his  suspecting 
it.  Besides,  it  is  reasonable  to  believe  that  the  re- 
crudescence of  cold  that  we  are  suffering  from  now 
may  have  something  to  do  with  the  change  in  her  con- 
dition ;  it  is  probable  that  with  the  mild  spring  weather 
she  may  improve." 

He  hoped  by  this  counsel  to  quiet  Phillis's  uneasi- 
ness and  to  gain  time.  But  it  had  the  opposite  effect. 
In  her  anguish,  which  increased  as  the  time  for  the  trial 
approached,  it  was  not  probabilities,  any  more  than  the 
uncertain  influence  of  the  spring,  that  Phillis  could 
depend  on;  she  must  have  something  more  and  better; 
but  fearing  a  refusal,  she  forbore  to  tell  him  what  she 
hoped  to  obtain. 

It  was  only  when  she  had  succeeded  that  she  spoke. 

Every  day,  on  leaving  Madame  Dammauville,  she 
[234] 


CONSCIENCE 

came  to  tell  him  what  she  had  learned,  and  for  three 
successive  days  her  story  was  the  same : 

"She  was  not  able  to  leave  her  bed." 

And  each  day  he  made  the  same  reply: 

"It  is  the  cold  weather.  Surely,  we  shall  soon  have 
a  change;  this  frost  and  wind  will  not  continue  beyond 
the  end  of  March." 

He  was  pained  at  her  desolation  and  anguish,  but 
what  could  he  do?  It  was  not  his  fault  that  this  re- 
lapse occurred  at  a  decisive  moment;  fate  had  been 
against  him  long  enough,  and  he  was  not  going  to 
counteract  it  at  the  time  when  it  seemed  to  take  his 
side,  by  yielding  to  the  desire  that  Phillis  dared  not 
express,  but  which  he  divined,  and  by  going  to  see 
Madame  Dammauville. 

When  she  entered  his  office  on  the  fourth  day,  he 
knew  at  once  by  her  manner  that  something  favorable 
to  Florentin  had  happened. 

"Madame  Dammauville  is  up,"  he  said. 

"No." 

* '  I  thought  she  must  be,  by  your  vivacity  and  lightness. ' ' 

"It  is  because  I  am  happy;  Madame  Dammauville 
wishes  to  consult  you." 

He  took  her  hands  roughly  and  shook  them. 

"You  have  done  that!"  he  exclaimed. 

She  looked  at  him  frightened. 

"You!    You!"  he  repeated  with  increasing  fury. 

"At  least  listen  to  me,"  she  murmured.  "You  will 
see  that  I  have  not  compromised  you  in  anything." 

Compromised !  It  was  professional  dignity  of  which 
bethought,  truly! 

[235] 


HECTOR  MALOT 

"  I  do  not  want  to  listen  to  you ;  I  shall  not  go." 

"Do  not  say  that." 

"It  only  needed  that  you  should  dispose  of  me  in 
your  own  way." 

"Victor!" 

Anger  carried  him  away. 

"I  belong  to  you,  then!  I  am  your  thing!  You  do 
with  me  what  you  wish!  You  decide,  and  I  have  only 
to  obey!  There  is  too  much  of  this!  You  can  go; 
everything  is  at  an  end  between  us." 

She  listened,  crushed ;  but  this  last  word,  which  struck 
her  in  her  love,  gave  her  strength.  In  her  turn  she  took 
his  hands,  and  although  he  wished  to  withdraw  them, 
she  held  them  closely  in  her  own. 

"You  may  throw  in  my  face  all  the  angry  words  you 
please;  you  may  reproach  me  as  much  as  you  think  I 
deserve  it,  and  I  will  not  complain.  Without  doubt,  I 
have  done  you  wrong,  and  I  feel  the  weight  of  it  on 
seeing  how  profoundly  you  are  wounded;  but  to  send 
me  away,  to  tell  me  that  all  is  over  between  us,  no, 
Victor,  you  will  not  do  that.  You  will  not  say  it,  for 
yo\i  know  that  never  was  a  man  loved  as  I  love  you, 
adored,  respected.  And  voluntarily,  deliberately,  even 
to  save  my  brother,  that  I  should  have  compromised 
you!" 

He  pushed  her  from  him. 

"Go!"  he  said  harshly. 

She  threw  herself  on  her  knees,  and  taking  his  hands 
that  he  had  withdrawn,  she  kissed  them  passionately. 

"But  listen  to  me,"  she  cried.  "Before  condemning 
me,  hear  my  defence.    Even  if  I  were  a  hundred  times 

[236] 


CONSCIENCE 

more  guilty  than  I  really  am,  you  could  not  drive  me 
from  you  with  this  unmerciful  hardness." 

"Go!" 

"You  lose  your  head ;  anger  carries  you  away.  What 
is  the  matter?  It  is  impossible  that  I,  by  my  stupidity, 
through  my  fault,  could  put  you  in  such  a  state  of  mad 
exasperation.    What  is  the  matter,  my  beloved  ?" 

These  few  words  did  more  than  Phillis's  despair  of 
her  expressions  of  love.  She  was  right,  he  lost  his  head. 
And  however  guilty  she  might  be  towards  him,  it  was 
evident  that  she  could  not  admit  that  the  fault  she  com- 
mitted threw  him  into  this  access  of  furious  folly.  It 
was  not  natural ;  and  in  his  words  and  actions  all  must 
be  natural,  all  must  be  capable  of  explanation. 

"  Very  well,  speak ! "  he  said.  "  I  am  listening  to  you. 
Moreover,  it  is  better  to  know.    Speak ! ' ' 


t»37J 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

THE   APPOINTMENT 

OU  should  understand,"  she  said  with  a 
little  more  calmness — for,  since  he  per- 
mitted her  to  speak,  she  hoped  to  con 
vince  him — "that  I  have  done  all  I 
could  to  bring  Madame  Dammauville 
to  the  idea  of  calling,  in  consulta- 
tion   with    Monsieur    Balzajette,    a 

doctor " 

"Which  would  be  myself." 

"You  or  another;  I  have  not  mentioned  any  name. 
You  should  not  think  me  awkward  enough  to  put  you 
forward  clumsily ;  it  would  not  be  a  good  way  to  make 
you  acceptable  to  an  intelligent  woman,  and  I  value 
your  dignity  too  much  to  lower  it.  I  believed  that 
another  doctor  than  Monsieur  Balzajette  would  find  a 
remedy,  some  way,  a  miracle  if  you  will,  to  enable 
Madame  Dammauville  to  go  to  the  Palais  de  Justice, 
and  I  said  it.  I  said  it  in  every  tone,  in  every  way, 
with  as  much  persuasion  as  I  could  put  in  my  words. 
Was  it  not  the  life  of  my  brother  that  I  defended,  our 
honor?  At  first,  I  found  Madame  Dammauville  much 
opposed  to  this  idea.  She  would  be  better  soon,  she  felt 
it.  Otherwise,  if  it  were  her  duty  to  be  carried  to  the 
Palais  de  Justice,  she  would  not  hesitate." 

[238] 


CONSCIENCE 

"She  would  do  that?" 

"Assuredly.  No  one  has  a  stronger  sense  of  justice. 
She  would  feel  guilty  did  she  not  give  her  testimony  to 
save  an  innocent  person;  not  to  save  him  when  she 
could  would  be  to  take  the  responsibility  of  his  loss.  It 
is  therefore  certain  that  if  she  cannot  go  to  court  alone, 
she  will  do  all  she  can  to  go,  no  matter  how — on  M. 
Balzajette's  arm,  or  on  a  stretcher.  I  was,  then,  easy 
enough  on  this  side,  but  I  was  not  for  the  stretcher. 
What  would  people  think  to  see  her  in  this  condition? 
What  impression  would  she  make  on  the  jury  ?  Would 
not  her  appearance  weaken  the  value  of  her  testimony  ? 
As  Madame  Dammauville  is  fond  of  me,  and  very 
kind  to  me,  I  determined  to  profit  by  this  kindness  to 
urge  a  consultation,  but  without  mentioning  any  name. 
I  represented  to  her  that,  since  M.  Balzajette  might  say 
with  every  appearance  of  truth  he  had  cured  her,  he 
should  not  be  angry  if  she  desired  to  ratify  this  cure. 
That  besides,  there  was  an  imperative  motive  that 
would  not  permit  her  to  wait,  for  it  would  be  very  dis- 
agreeable to  her  to  present  herself  at  the  court  of  assizes 
in  a  theatrical  way,  which  was  not  at  all  according  to  her 
character  or  habits.  I  easily  discovered  that  the  fear 
of  giving  pain  to  this  old  friend  of  her  husband  was  the 
chief  reason  why  she  was  opposed  to  this  consultation. 
It  was  then  that  your  name  was  pronounced." 

"You  acknowledge  it,  then?" 

"You  will  see  how,  and  you  will  not  be  angry  about 
it.  I  have  often  spoken  to  Madame  Dammauville  of 
mamma,  and,  consequently,  of  how  you  cured  her  pa- 
ralysis, that  resembled  hers.   It  was  not  wrong,  was  it,  to 

[239] 


HECTOR  MALOT 

say  what  you  have  done  for  us?  And  without  letting 
any  one  suspect  my  love,  I  could  praise  you,  which  my 
gratitude  prompted.  She  asked  me  many  questions, 
and  naturally,  as  usual  when  I  speak  of  you,  when  I 
have  the  joy  of  pronouncing  your  name,  I  answered  in 
detail.     That  is  not  a  crime  ? ' ' 

She  waited  a  moment,  looking  at  him.  Without  soft- 
ening the  hardness  of  his  glance,  he  made  a  sign  to  her 
to  continue. 

"When  I  persisted  on  the  consultation,  Madame 
Dammauville  recalled  what  I  had  said,  and  she  was  the 
first — you  hear? — the  first  to  pronounce  your  name. 
As  you  had  cured  my  mother,  I  had  the  right  to  praise 
you.  With  a  nature  like  hers,  she  would  not  have  un- 
derstood if  I  had  not  done  it;  she  would  have  believed 
me  ungrateful.  I  spoke  of  your  book  on  the  diseases 
of  the  spinal  cord,  which  was  quite  natural;  and  as  she 
manifested  a  desire  to  read  it,  I  offered  to  lend  it  to 
her." 

"Was  that  natural?" 

"With  any  but  Madame  Dammauville,  no;  but  she 
is  not  frivolous.  I  took  the  book  to  her  two  days  ago, 
and  she  has  just  told  me  that,  after  reading  it,  she  has 
decided  to  send  for  you." 

"I  shall  certainly  not  go;  she  has  her  own  physi- 
cian." 

"Do  not  imagine  that  I  have  come  to  ask  you  to  pay 
her  a  visit;  all  is  arranged  with  Monsieur  Balzajette, 
who  will  write  to  you  or  see  you,  I  do  not  know  which." 

"That  will  be  very  extraordinary  on  the  part  of  Bal- 
zajette!" 

[240] 


CONSCIENCE 

"Perhaps  you  judge  him  harshly.  When  Madame 
Dammauville  spoke  to  him  of  you  he  did  not  raise  the 
smallest  objection ;  on  the  contrary,  he  praised  you.  He 
says  that  you  are  one  of  the  rare  young  men  in  whom 
one  may  have  confidence.  These  are  his  own  words 
that  Madame  Dammauville  told  me." 

"What  do  I  care  for  the  opinion  of  this  old 
beast!" 

"I  am  explaining  how  it  happens  that  you  are  called 
into  consultation;  it  is  not  because  I  spoke  of  you,  but 
because  you  have  inspired  Monsieur  Balzajette  with 
confidence.  However  stupid  he  may  be,  he  is  just  to 
you,  and  knows  your  value." 

It  was  come  then,  the  time  for  the  meeting  that  he 
did  not  wish  to  believe  possible;  and  it  was  brought 
about  in  such  a  way  that  he  did  not  see  how  he  could 
escape  it.  He  might  refuse  Phillis;  but  Balzajette? 
A  colleague  called  him  in  consultation,  and  why  should 
he  not  go  ?  Had  he  foreseen  this  blow  he  would  have 
left  Paris  until  the  trial  was  over,  but  he  was  taken  un- 
awares. What  could  he  say  to  justify  a  sudden  ab- 
sence ?  He  had  no  mother  or  brothers  who  might  send 
for  him,  and  with  whom  he  would  be  obliged  to  remain. 
Besides,  he  wished  to  go  to  court;  and  since  his  testi- 
mony would  carry  considerable  weight  with  the  jury, 
it  was  his  duty  to  be  present  on  account  of  Florentin. 
It  would  be  a  contemptible  cowardice  to  fail  in  this  duty, 
and  more,  it  would  be  an  imprudence.  In  the  eyes  of 
the  world  he  must  appear  to  have  nothing  to  fear,  and 
this  assurance,  this  confidence  in  himself,  was  one  of 
the  conditions  of  his  safety.  Now,  if  he  went  to  court, 
i6  [  241  ] 


HECTOR  MALOT 

and  from  every  point  of  view  it  was  impossible  that  he 
should  not  go,  he  would  meet  Madame  Dammauville, 
as  she  intended  to  be  carried  there  if  she  were  unable 
to  go  in  any  other  way.  Whether  it  was  at  her  house,  or 
at  the  Palais  de  Justice,  the  meeting  was  then  certain, 
and  in  spite  of  what  he  had  done,  circumstances  stronger 
than  his  will  had  prepared  it  and  brought  it  about; 
nothing  that  he  could  do  would  prevent  it. 

The  only  question  that  deserved  serious  considera- 
tion just  now  was  to  know  where  this  meeting  would  be 
the  least  dangerous  for  him — at  Madame  Dammau- 
ville's  or  at  the  Palais? 

He  reflected  silently,  paying  no  more  attention  to 
Phillis  than  if  she  were  not  present,  his  eyes  fixed,  his 
brow  contracted,  his  lips  tightly  closed,  when  the  door- 
bell rang.  As  Joseph  was  at  his  post,  Saniel  did  not 
move. 

"If  it  is  a  patient,"  Phillis  said,  who  did  not  wish  to 
go  yet,  "I  will  wait  in  the  dining-room." 

And  she  rose. 

Before  she  could  leave  the  room,  Joseph  entered. 

"Doctor  Balzajette,"  he  said. 

"You  see!"  Phillis  cried. 

Without  replying,  Saniel  made  a  sign  to  Joseph  to 
admit  Doctor  Balzajette,  and  while  Phillis  silently  dis- 
appeared, he  went  toward  the  parlor. 

Balzajette  came  forward  with  both  hands  extended. 

"  Good-day,  my  young  confrere.  I  am  enchanted  to 
meet  you." 

The  reception  was  benevolent,  amicable,  and  pro- 
tecting, and  Saniel  replied  at  his  best. 

[242] 


CONSCIENCE 

"Since  we  met  the  other  day,"  Balzajette  continued, 
"I  have  thought  of  you.  And  nothing  more  natural 
than  that,  for  you  inspired  me  with  a  quick  sympathy. 
The  first  time  you  came  to  see  me  you  pleased  me  im- 
mediately, and  I  told  you  you  would  make  your  way. 
Do  you  remember?" 

Assuredly  he  remembered;  and  of  all  the  visits  that 
he  made  to  the  doctors  and  druggists  of  his  quarter,  that 
to  Balzajette  was  the  hardest.  It  was  impossible  to 
show  more  pride,  haughtiness,  and  disdain  than  Balza- 
jette had  put  into  his  reception  of  the  then  unknown 
young  man. 

'*I  told  you  what  I  thought  of  you,"  continued  Balza- 
jette. "It  is  with  regard  to  this  patient  of  whom  you 
spoke  to  me;  you  remember ? " 

"Madame  Dammauville ? " 

"Exactly.  I  put  her  on  her  feet,  as  I  told  you,  but 
since  then  this  bad  weather  has  compelled  her  to  take 
to  her  bed  again.  Without  doubt,  it  is  only  an  affair  of 
a  few  days;  but  in  the  mean  time,  the  poor  woman  is 
irritable  and  impatient.  You  know  women,  young 
conjrhe.  To  calm  this  impatience,  I  spontaneously 
proposed  a  consultation,  and  naturally  pronounced  your 
name,  which  is  well  known  by  your  fine  work  on  the 
medullary  lesions.  I  supported  it,  as  was  proper,  with 
the  esteem  that  it  has  acquired,  and  I  have  the  satisfac- 
tion to  see  it  accepted." 

Saniel  thanked  him  as  if  he  believed  in  the  perfect 
sincerity  of  this  spontaneous  proposition. 

"I  like  the  young,  and  whenever  an  occasion  pre- 
sents itself,  I  shall  be  happy  to  introduce  you  to  my 

[243] 


HECTOR  MALOT 

clientage.     For  Madame  Dammauville,  when  can  you 
go  with  me  to  see  her  ?  " 

As  Saniel  appeared  to  hesitate,  Balzajette,  mistaking 
the  cause  of  his  silence,  persisted. 

"  She  is  impatient,"  he  said.  " Let  us  go  the  first  day 
that  is  possible." 

He  must  reply,  and  in  these  conditions  a  refusal  would 
be  inexplicable. 

"Will  to-morrow  suit  you  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  To-morrow,  by  all  means.     At  what  hour  ?  " 

Before  replying,  Saniel  went  to  his  desk  and  consulted 
an  almanac,  which  appeared  perfectly  ridiculous  to 
Balzajette. 

"  Does  he  imagine,  the  young  conjrhre,  that  I  am  going 
to  believe  his  time  so  fully  occupied  that  he  must  make 
a  special  arrangement  to  give  me  an  hour  ?  " 

But  it  was  not  an  arrangement  of  this  kind  that  Saniel 
sought.  His  almanac  gave  the  rising  and  the  setting 
of  the  sun,  and  it  was  the  exact  hour  of  sunset  that  he 
wished:  ''26  March,  6  h.  20  m."  At  this  moment  it 
would  not  be  dark  enough  at  Madame  Dammauville's 
for  lamps  to  be  lighted,  and  yet  it  would  be  dark  enough 
to  prevent  her  from  seeing  him  clearly  in  the  uncertain 
light  of  evening. 

"  Will  a  quarter  past  six  suit  you  ?  I  will  call  for  you 
at  six  o'clock." 

"Very  well.  Only  I  shall  ask  you  to  be  very  exact; 
I  have  a  dinner  at  seven  o'clock  in  the  Rue  Royale." 

Saniel  promised  promptness.  The  dinner  was  a  favor- 
able circumstance,  enabling  him  to  escape  from  Madame 
Dammauville's  before  the  lamps  would  be  lighted. 

[244] 


CONSCIENCE 

When  Balzajette  was  gone,  he  rejoined  Phillis  in  the 
dining-room. 

"A  consultation  is  arranged  for  to-morrow  at  six 
o'clock,  at  Madame  Dammauville's." 

She  threw  herself  on  his  breast. 

"  I  knew  that  you  would  forgive  me." 


t  245  J 


CHAPTER  XXXII 


THE   FATAL  LIGHT 


T  was  not  without  emotion  that  the  next 
day  Saniel  saw  the  afternoon  sHp  away, 
and  although  he  worked  to  employ  his 
time,  he  interrupted  himself  at  each  in- 
stant to  look  at  the  clock. 

Sometimes  he  found  the  time  pass- 
ing quickly,  and  then  all  at  once  it 
seemed  to  stand  still. 
This  agitation  exasperated  him,  for  calmness  had 
never  been  more  necessary  than  at  this  moment.  A 
danger  was  before  him,  and  it  was  only  in  being  mas- 
ter of  himself  that  he  could  be  saved.  He  must  have 
the  coolness  of  a  surgeon  during  an  operation,  the 
glance  of  a  general  in  a  battle;  and  the  coolness  and 
the  glance  were  not  found  among  the  nervous  and 
agitated. 

Could  he  escape  from  this  danger  ? 
This  was  the  question  that  he  asked  himself  unceas- 
ingly, although  he  knew  the  uselessness  of  it.     What 
good  was  it  to  study  the  chances  for  or  against  him  ? 

Either  he  had  succeeded  in  rendering  himself  un- 
recognizable or  he  had  not;  but  it  was  done,  and  now 
he  could  do  nothing  more.  He  did  the  best  he  could 
in  choosing  an  hour  when  the  dim  evening  light  put 

[246] 


CONSCIENCE 

the  chances  on  his  side;  for  the  rest  he  must  trust  to 
Fortune. 

All  day  he  studied  the  sky,  because  for  the  success  of 
his  plan  it  must  be  neither  too  bright  nor  too  dark:  if 
it  were  too  bright  Madame  Dammauville  could  see  him 
clearly;  if  it  were  too  dark  the  lamps  would  be  lighted. 
He  remembered  that  it  was  by  lamplight  she  had  seen 
him.  Until  evening  the  weather  was  uncertain,  with  a 
sky  sometimes  sunny,  sometimes  cloudy;  but  at  this 
hour  the  clouds  were  driven  away  by  a  wind  from  the 
north,  and  the  weather  became  decidedly  cold,  with 
the  pink  and  pale  clearness  of  the  end  of  March  when 
it  still  freezes. 

On  examining  himself  he  had  the  satisfaction  to  feel 
that  he  was  calmer  than  in  the  morning,  and  that  as 
the  moment  of  attack  approached,  his  agitation  de- 
creased; decision,  firmness,  and  coolness  came  to  him; 
he  felt  master  of  his  will,  and  capable  of  obeying  it. 

At  six  o'clock  precisely  he  rang  at  Balzajette's  door, 
and  they  started  immediately  for  the  Rue  Sainte-Anne. 
Happy  to  have  a  complaisant  listener,  Balzajette  did 
all  the  talking,  so  that  Saniel  had  only  to  reply  "yes" 
or  "no"  from  time  to  time,  and  of  course  it  was  not 
of  Madame  Dammauville  that  he  spoke,  but  of  other 
matters — of  a  first  representation  on  the  previous  even- 
ing at  the  Op6ra  Comique;  of  politics;  of  the  next 
salon. 

At  exactly  a  quarter  past  six  they  reached  the  house 
in  the  Rue  Sainte-Anne,  where  Saniel  had  not  been 
since  Caffi^'s  death.  On  passing  the  old  concierge's 
lodge  he  felt  satisfied  with  himself;  his  heart  did  not 

[  247  3 


HECTOR  MALOT 

beat  too  quickly,  his  ideas  were  firm  and  clear.  Should 
danger  arrive,  he  felt  assured  of  mastery  over  himself, 
without  excitement,  as  without  brutality. 

Balzajette  rang  the  bell,  and  the  door  was  opened  by 
a  maid,  who  was,  evidently,  placed  in  the  vestibule  to 
await  their  arrival.  Balzajette  entered  first,  and  Saniel 
followed  him,  giving  a  hasty  glance  at  the  rooms  through 
which  they  passed.  They  reached  a  door  at  which  Bal- 
zajette knocked  twice. 

"Enter,"  replied  a  feminine  voice  in  a  firm  tone. 

This  was  the  decisive  moment;  the  day  was  every- 
thing that  could  be  wished,  neither  too  light  nor  too 
dark.  What  would  Madame  Dammauville's  first  glance 
mean? 

"My  con]rhre,  Doctor  Saniel,"  Balzajette  said  on 
going  toward  Madame  Dammauville,  and  taking  her 
hand. 

She  was  lying  on  the  little  bed  of  which  Phillis  had 
spoken,  but  not  against  the  windows,  rather  in  the 
middle  of  the  room,  placed  there  evidently  after  the 
experience  of  a  sick  person  who  knows  that  to  be  ex- 
amined she  must  be  easily  seen. 

Profiting  by  this  arrangement,  Saniel  immediately 
passed  between  the  bed  and  the  windows  in  such  a  way 
that  the  daylight  was  behind  him,  and  consequently  his 
face  was  in  shadow.  This  was  done  naturally,  without 
affectation,  and  it  seemed  that  he  only  took  this  side  of 
the  bed  because  Balzajette  took  the  other. 

Directed  by  Saniel,  the  examination  commenced  with 
a  clearness  and  a  precision  that  pleased  Balzajette.  He 
did  not  lose  himself  in  idle  words,  the  young  confr^e, 

[348] 


CONSCIENCE 

any  more  than  in  useless  details.  He  went  straight  to 
the  end,  only  asking  and  seeking  the  indispensable; 
and  as  Madame  Dammauville's  replies  were  as  precise 
as  his  questions,  while  listening  and  putting  in  a  word 
from  time  to  time  he  said  to  himself  that  his  dinner 
would  not  be  delayed,  which  was  the  chief  point  of 
his  preoccupation.  Decidedly,  he  understood  life,  the 
young  confrhe;  he  might  be  called  in  consultation  with 
his  heavy  appearance  and  careless  toilet,  there  was  no 
danger  of  rivalry. 

However,  when  Madame  Dammauville  began  to 
speak  of  being  sensitive  to  cold,  Balzajette  found  that 
Saniel  let  her  lose  herself  in  minute  details. 

"Have  you  always  been  sensitive  to  cold  ?" 

"Yes;  and  with  a  deplorable  disposition  to  take  cold 
if  the  temperature  is  lowered  one  or  two  degrees." 

"  Did  you  exercise  in  the  open  air  ?  " 

"Very  little." 

"Were  you  ever  advised  to  try  shower-baths  of  cold 
water?" 

"I  should  not  have  been  able  to  bear  it." 

"I  must  tell  you,"  Balzajette  interrupted,  "that  be- 
fore occupying  this  house  that  belongs  to  her,  Madame 
Dammauville  lived  in  a  more  modem  apartment  which 
was  heated  by  a  furnace,  and  where  consequently  it  was 
easier  to  maintain  an  even  temperature  to  which  she  was 
accustomed." 

"On  coming  to  live  in  this  house,  where  it  is  not 
possible  to  have  a  furnace,"  Madame  Dammauville 
went  on,  "I  employed  every  means  to  shelter  me  from 
the  cold,  which  I  am  sure  is  my  great  enemy.     You  can 

[249] 


HECTOR  MALOT 

see  that  I  have  had  weather-strips  put  at  the  doors,  as 
well  as  at  the  windows." 

In  spite  of  this  invitation  and  the  gesture  which  ac- 
companied it,  Saniel  was  careful  not  to  turn  his  head 
toward  the  window;  he  kept  his  face  in  the  shadow, 
contenting  himself  with  looking  at  the  door  which  was 
opposite  to  him. 

"At  the  same  time,"  she  continued,  "I  had  hangings 
put  on  the  walls,  carpets  on  the  floors,  thick  curtains  at 
the  windows  and  doors,  and  in  spite  of  the  large  fire  in 
my  fireplace,  often  I  am  unable  to  get  warm." 

"Do  you  also  have  a  fire  in  this  little  stove?"  Saniel 
asked,  pointing  to  a  small  movable  stove  at  the  comer 
of  the  fireplace. 

"Only  at  night,  so  that  my  servants  need  not  get  up 
every  hour  to  replenish  the  fire  in  the  chimney.  The  fire 
is  made  in  the  evening  just  before  I  go  to  sleep ;  the  pipe 
is  placed  in  the  chimney,  and  it  maintains  sufl&cient  heat 
until  morning." 

"I  think  it  will  be  expedient  to  suppress  this  mode  of 
heating,  which  must  be  very  inconvenient,"  Saniel  said; 
"and  my  confrere  and  myself  will  consider  the  question 
whether  it  will  not  be  possible  to  give  you  the  heat  you 
need  with  this  chimney,  without  fatiguing  your  servants, 
and  without  waking  you  too  often  to  take  care  of  the 
fire.     But  let  us  continue." 

When  he  reached  the  end  of  his  questions  he  rose  to 
examine  the  patient  on  her  bed,  but  without  turning 
round,  and  in  such  a  way  as  still  to  keep  his  back  to  the 
light. 

As  little  by  little  the  reflection  of  the  setting  sun  faded, 
[250] 


CONSCIENCE 

Balzajette  proposed  asking  for  a  lamp :  without  replying 
too  hastily,  Saniel  refused;  it  was  useless,  the  daylight 
was  sufficient. 

They  passed  into  the  parlor,  where  they  very  quickly 
came  to  an  amicable  conclusion,  for  at  everything  that 
Saniel  said  Balzajette  replied : 

"I  am  happy  to  see  that  you  partake  of  my  opinion. 
That  is  it.     Truly,  that  is  so!" 

And,  besides,  each  had  his  reasons  for  hurrying — 
Saniel,  for  fear  of  the  lamps;  Balzajette,  uneasiness  for 
his  dinner.  The  diagnosis  and  the  treatment  were  rap- 
idly settled ;  Saniel  proposed,  Balzajette  approved.  The 
question  of  the  movable  stove  was  decided  in  two  words: 
for  the  night  a  grate  would  be  placed  in  the  chimney; 
a  fire  of  coal  covered  with  damp  coal-dust  would  keep 
the  fire  until  morning. 

"Let  us  return,"  Balzajette  said,  who  took  the  initi- 
ative and  decided  on  all  material  things. 

Saniel,  who  kept  his  eyes  on  the  windows,  was  calm ; 
it  was  yet  too  light  to  need  lamps,  besides,  during  their 
tite-^-Ute,  no  servant  had  crossed  the  salon  to  enter 
Madame  Dammauville's  room. 

But  when  Balzajette  opened  the  door  to  return  to  the 
patient,  a  flood  of  light  filled  the  parlor  and  enveloped 
them.  A  lamp  with  a  shade  was  placed  on  the  little 
table  near  the  bed,  and  two  other  lighted  lamps  with 
globes  were  on  the  mantel,  reflecting  their  light  in  the 
mirror.  How  had  he  not  foreseen  that  there  was  an- 
other door  to  Madame  Dammauville's  room  besides  the 
door  from  the  parlor?  But  if  he  had  foreseen  it,  it 
would  not  have  lessened  the  danger  of  the  situation. 

[251] 


HECTOR  MALOT 

He  would  have  had  time  to  prepare  himself,  that  was 
all.  But  to  prepare  himself  for  what  ?  Either  to  enter 
the  room  and  brave  this  danger,  or  to  fly.     He  entered. 

"This  is  what  we  have  decided,"  Balzajette  said,  who 
never  lost  an  occasion  to  put  himself  forward  and  to 
speak. 

While  he  spoke,  Madame  Dammauville  seemed  not  to 
listen  to  him.  Her  eyes  were  on  Saniel,  placed  beween 
her  and  the  chimney  with  his  back  to  the  lamps,  and 
she  looked  at  him  with  a  characteristic  fixedness. 

Balzajette,  who  listened  to  himself,  observed  nothing; 
but  Saniel,  who  knew  what  there  was  behind  this  glance, 
could  not  but  be  struck  with  it.  Happily  for  him,  he 
had  only  to  let  Balzajette  talk,  for  if  he  had  spoken  he 
would  surely  have  betrayed  himself  by  the  quivering  of 
his  voice. 

However,  Balzajette  seemed  coming  to  the  end  of  his 
explanations.  Suddenly  Saniel  saw  Madame  Dammau- 
ville extend  her  hand  toward  the  lamp  on  the  table,  and 
raise  the  shade  by  lowering  it  toward  her  in  such  a  way 
as  to  form  a  reflector  that  threw  the  light  on  him.  At 
the  same  time  he  received  a  bright  ray  full  on  his  face. 

Madame  Dammauville  uttered  a  small,  stifled  cry. 

Balzajette  stopped;  then  his  astonished  eyes  went 
from  Madame  Dammauville  to  Saniel,  and  from  Saniel 
to  Madame  Dammauville. 

"Are  you  suffering?"  he  asked. 

"Not  at  all." 

What,  then,  was  the  matter  ?  But  it  was  seldom  that 
he  asked  for  an  explanation  of  a  thing  that  astonished 
him,  preferring  to  divine  and  to  explain  it  himself. 

[252] 


CONSCIENCE 

"Ah!  I  understand  it,"  he  said  with  a  satisfied  smile. 
"The  youth  of  my  young  coiijrere  astonishes  you.  It  is 
his  fault.  Why  the  devil  did  he  have  his  long  hair  and 
his  light  curled  beard  cut  ?  " 

If  Madame  Dammauville  had  not  released  the  lamp- 
shade, she  would  have  seen  Saniel  turned  pale  and  his 
lips  quiver. 

''Mais  voila! "  continued  Balzajette.  " He  made  this 
sacrifice  to  his  new  functions;  the  student  has  disap- 
peared before  the  professor." 

He  might  have  continued  a  long  time.  Neither  Ma- 
dame Dammauville  nor  Saniel  listened  to  him;  but, 
thinking  of  his  dinner,  he  was  not  going  to  launch  into 
a  discourse  that  at  any  other  moment  he  would  not 
have  failed  to  undertake.    He  rose  to  go. 

As  Saniel  bowed,  Madame  Dammauville  stopped  him 
with  a  movement  of  her  hand. 

"Did  you  not  know  this  unfortunate  who  was  assas- 
sinated opposite  ?"  she  asked,  pointing  to  the  windows. 

So  serious  as  was  an  acknowledgment,  Saniel  could 
not  answer  in  the  negative. 

"  I  was  called  in  to  prove  his  death,"  he  said. 

And  he  took  several  steps  toward  the  door,  but  she 
stopped  him  again. 

"Had  you  business  with  him  ?"  she  asked. 

"I  saw  him  several  times." 

Balzajette  cut  short  this  conversation,  which  was  idle 
talk  to  him. 

"  Good  evening,  dear  Madame.  I  will  see  you  to- 
morrow, but  not  in  the  morning,  for  I  go  to  the  country 
at  six  o'clock,  and  shall  not  return  until  noon." 

[253] 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 

SUSPENSE 

[ID  you  observe  how  I  cut  the  conversa- 
tion short?"  Balzajette  said,  as  they 
went  down-stairs.  "If  you  listen  to 
women  they  will  never  let  you  go.  I 
cannot  imagine  why  she  spoke  to  you 
of  this  assassinated  man,  can  you?" 
"No." 

"I  beheve  that  this  assassination  has 
affected  her  brain  to  a  certain  point.  In  any  case,  it 
has  given  her  a  horror  of  this  house." 

He  continued  thus  without  Saniel  listening  to  what 
he  said.  On  reaching  the  Rue  Neuve-des-Petits- 
Champs,  Balzajette  hailed  a  passing  cab. 

"You  have  had  the  kindness  not  to  delay  me,"  he 
said,  pressing  the  hand  of  his  young  confrere,  "but  I 
feel  that  I  must  hurry.     Au  revoir." 

A  good  riddance!  This  babbling  gave  Saniel  the 
vertigo. 

He  must  recover  himself,  look  the  situation  in  the 
face,  and  consider  that  which  might,  which  must, 
happen. 

The  situation  was  plain;  Madame  Dammauville's  cry 
revealed  it.  When  the  lamplight  struck  him  full  in  the 
face,  she  found  in  him  the  man  whom  she  had  seen  draw 

[254] 


CONSCIENCE 

Caffi6's  curtains.  If,  in  her  amazement,  she  at  first  re- 
fused to  believe  it,  her  questions  regarding  Caffie,  and 
Balzajette's  explanations  about  his  hair  and  beard,  de- 
stroyed her  hesitation  and  replaced  doubt  by  the  horror 
of  certainty.  He  was  the  assassin ;  she  knew  it,  she  had 
seen  him.  And  such  as  she  revealed  herself  to  him,  it 
seemed  that  she  was  not  the  woman  to  challenge  the  testi- 
mony of  her  eyes,  and  to  let  the  strength  of  her  memory 
be  shaken  by  simple  denials,  supported  by  Balzajette's 
words. 

With  a  vivid  clearness  he  saw  to  the  bottom  of  the 
abyss  open  before  him ;  but  what  he  did  not  see  was  in 
what  way  she  would  push  him  into  this  giddy  whirlpool, 
that  is,  to  whom  she  would  reveal  the  discovery  that 
she  had  made.  To  Phillis,  to  Balzajette,  or  to  the 
judge  ? 

It  was  almost  a  relief  to  think  that  for  this  evening, 
at  least,  it  would  not  be  to  Phillis,  for  at  this  moment 
she  would  be  at  his  rooms,  anxiously  awaiting  his  re- 
turn. He  felt  a  sadness  and  a  revulsion  at  the  thought 
that  she  might  be  the  first  to  learn  the  truth.  He  did 
not  wish  that,  and  he  would  prevent  it. 

This  preoccupation  gave  him  an  object;  he  reached 
the  Rue  Louis-le- Grand  thinking  more  of  Phillis  than 
of  himself.  What  distress  when  she  should  know  all! 
How  could  she  support  this  blow,  and  with  what  senti- 
ments would  it  inspire  her,  with  what  judgment  for  the 
man  whom  she  loved  ?  Poor  girl !  He  grew  tender  at 
the  thought.  As  for  him,  he  was  lost,  and  it  was  his 
fault;  he  bore  the  penalty  of  his  own  stupidity.  But 
Phillis — it  would  be  a  blow  to  her  love  that  she  must 

[255] 


HECTOR  MALOT 

bear.     And  what  a  blow  to  this  sensitive  heart,  to  this 
proud  and  noble  soul! 

Perhaps  he  would  now  see  her  for  the  last  time,  for 
this  one  hour,  and  never  again.  Then  he  would  be  kind 
to  her,  and  leave  her  a  memory  that,  later,  would  be  an 
alleviation  to  her  sorrow,  a  warm,  bright  ray  in  her  time 
of  mourning.  During  these  last  few  days  he  had  been 
hard,  brutal,  irritable,  strange,  and  with  her  habitual 
serenity  she  had  overlooked  it  all.  When  he  pushed 
her  from  him  with  his  heavy  hand,  she  had  kissed  this 
hand,  fastening  on  him  her  beautiful,  tender  eyes,  full 
of  passionate  caresses.  He  must  make  her  forget  that, 
and  she  must  carry  from  their  last  inter\dew  a  tender 
impression  that  would  sustain  h^. 

What  could  he  do  for  her?  He  remembered  how 
happy  she  had  been  at  their  impromptu  dinners  six 
months  before,  and  he  would  give  her  this  same  pleas- 
ure. He  would  see  her  happy  again,  and  near  her, 
under  her  glance,  perhaps  he  would  forget  to-mor- 
row. 

He  went  to  the  caterer  who  furnished  him  with  break- 
fast, and  ordered  two  dinners  to  be  sent  to  his  rooms 
immediately. 

Before  he  could  put  the  key  in  the  lock,  his  door  was 
opened  by  Phillis,  who  recognized  his  step  on  the  land- 
ing. 

"Well?" 

"Your  brother  is  saved." 

"Madame  Dammauville  will  go  to  court?" 

"I  promise  you  that  he  is  saved." 

"By  you?" 

[256] 


CONSCIENCE 

"Yes,  by  me — exactly." 

In  her  access  of  joy,  she  did  not  notice  the  accent  on 
these  last  words. 

"  Then  you  forgive  me  ?  " 

He  took  her  in  his  arms,  and  kissing  her  with  deep 
emotion  said  : 

"  With  all  my  heart,  I  swear  it ! " 

"You  see  it  was  written  that  you  should  see  Madame 
Dammauville,  in  spite  of  yourself,  in  spite  of  all;  it  was 
providential." 

"It  is  certain  that  your  friend  Providence  could  not 
interfere  more  opportunely  in  my  affairs." 

This  time  she  was  struck  by  the  tone  of  his  voice; 
but  she  imagined  that  it  was  only  this  allusion  to  su- 
perior intervention  that  had  vexed  him. 

"It  was  of  ourselves  that  I  thought,"  she  said,  "not 
of  you." 

"I  understood.  But  do  not  let  us  talk  of  that;  you 
are  happy,  and  I  do  not  wish  to  shadow  your  joy.  On 
the  contrary,  I  thought  to  associate  myself  with  it  by 
giving  you  a  surprise:  we  are  going  to  dine  together." 

"Oh,  dearest!"  she  exclaimed, trembhng,  "how good 
you  are!  I  will  set  the  table,"  she  added  joyously,  "and 
you  light  the  fire;  for  we  must  have  a  bright  fire  to  en- 
liven us  and  to  keep  our  dinner  warm.  What  have  you 
ordered?" 

"I  do  not  know;  two  dinners." 

"So  much  the  better!    We  will  have  surprises.    We 
will  leave  the  dishes  covered  before  the  fire,  and  we  will 
take  them  anyhow.    Perhaps  we  shall  eat  the  roast 
before  the  entrSe,  but  that  will  be  all  the  more  funny." 
17  [257] 


HECTOR  MALOT 

Light,  quick,  busy,  graceful,  and  charming,  she  came 
and  went  around  the  table. 

,*  When  the  dinner  came,  the  table  was  ready,  and  they 
sat  down  opposite  to  each  other. 

"What  happiness  to  be  alone!"  she  said.  "To  be 
able  to  talk  and  to  look  at  each  other  freely! " 

He  looked  at  her  with  a  tenderness  in  his  eyes  that  she 
had  never  before  seen,  with  a  depth  of  serious  con- 
templation that  overwhelmed  her.  From  time  to  time 
little  cries  of  happiness  escaped  her. 

"  Oh !    Dearest,  dearest ! "  she  murmured. 

Yet  she  knew  him  too  well  not  to  see  that  a  cloud  of 
sadness  often  veiled  these  eyes  full  of  love,  and  that 
also  they  were  often  without  any  expression,  as  if  they 
looked  within.  Suddenly  she  became  quiet;  but  she 
could  not  long  remain  silent  when  she  was  uneasy. 
Why  this  melancholy  at  such  a  moment  ? 

"What  a  difference  between  this  dinner,"  she  said, 
"and  those  of  the  end  of  October!  At  that  time  you 
were  harassed  by  the  most  trying  difficulties,  at  war 
with  creditors,  menaced  on  all  sides,  without  hope; 
and  now  all  is  smooth.  No  more  creditors,  no  more 
struggles.  The  cares  that  I  brought  you  are  nearly  at 
an  end.  Life  opens  easy  and  glorious.  The  end  that 
you  pursued  is  reached ;  you  have  only  to  walk  straight 
before  you,  boldly  and  proudly.  Yet  there  is  a  sadness 
in  your  face  that  torments  me.  What  is  the  matter? 
Speak,  I  beg  you !  To  whom  should  you  confess,  if  not 
to  the  woman  who  adores  you  ?  " 

He  looked  at  her  a  long  time  without  replying,  ask- 
ing himself  if,  for  the  peace  of  his  own  heart,  this  con- 

[258] 


CONSCIENCE 

fession  would  not  be  better  than  silence;  but  courage 
failed  him,  pride  closed  his  lips. 

"What  should  be  the  matter ? "  he  said.  " If  my  face 
is  sad,  it  does  not  indicate  faithfully  what  I  feel;  for 
what  I  feel  at  this  moment  is  an  ineffable  sentiment  of 
tenderness  for  you,  an  inexpressible  gratitude  for  your 
love,  and  for  the  happiness  that  you  have  given  me.  If 
I  have  been  happy  in  my  rough  and  struggling  life,  it  is 
through  you.  What  I  have  had  of  joy,  confidence,  hope, 
memories,  I  owe  to  you ;  and  if  we  had  not  met  I  should 
have  the  right  to  say  that  I  have  been  the  most  miser- 
able among  the  miserable.  Whatever  happens  to  us, 
remember  these  words,  my  darling,  and  bury  them  in 
the  depths  of  your  heart,  where  you  will  find  them  some 
day  when  you  would  judge  me." 

"To  judge  you — I!" 

"You  love  me,  therefore  you  do  not  know  me.  But 
the  hour  will  come  when  you  will  wish  to  know  exactly 
the  man  whom  you  have  loved;  when  that  time  comes 
remember  this  evening." 

"  It  is  too  radiant  for  me  to  forget  it." 

"  Whatever  it  may  be,  remember  it.  Life  is  so  fragile 
and  so  ephemeral  a  thing,  that  it  is  beautiful  to  be  able 
to  concentrate  it,  to  sum  it  up  by  remembrance,  in  one 
hour  that  marks  it  and  gives  it  its  scope.  Such  an  hour 
is  this  one,  which  passes  while  I  speak  to  you  with  deep 
sincerity." 

Phillis  was  not  accustomed  to  these  Slans,  for,  in  the 
rare  effusions  to  which  he  sometimes  abandoned  him- 
self, Saniel  always  observed  a  certain  reserve,  as  if  he 
feared  to  commit  himself,  and  to  let  her  read  his  whole 

[259] 


HECTOR  MALOT 

nature.  Many  times  he  rallied  her  when  she  became 
sentimental,  as  he  said,  and  '^chantait  sa  romance;^' 
and  now  he  himself  sang  it — this  romance  of  love. 

Great  as  was  her  happiness  to  listen  to  him,  she 
could  not  help  feeling  an  uneasy  astonishment,  and 
asked  herself  under  what  melancholy  impression  he 
found  himself  at  this  moment. 

He  read  her  too  well  not  to  divine  this  uneasiness. 
Not  wishing  to  betray  himself,  he  brought  a  smile  to  his 
eyes,  and  said : 

"You  do  not  recognize  me,  do  you?  I  am  sure  you 
are  asking  yourself  if  I  am  not  ill." 

"  Oh,  dearest,  do  not  jest,  and  do  not  harden  yourself 
against  the  sentiment  that  makes  such  sweet  music  on 
your  lips!  I  am  happy,  50  happy,  to  hear  you  speak 
thus,  that  I  would  like  to  see  your  happiness  equal  to 
mine;  to  dissipate  the  dark  cloud  that  veils  your  glance. 
Will  you  never  abandon  yourself  ?  At  this  hour,  above 
all,  when  everything  sings  and  laughs  within  us  as  about 
us!  Nothing  was  more  natural  than  that  you  should 
be  sad  six  months  ago;  but  to-day  what  more  do  you 
want  to  make  you  happy  ?  " 

"Nothing,  it  is  true." 

"Is  not  the  present  the  radiant  morning  of  a  glorious 
future?" 

"What  will  you?  There  are  sad  physiognomies  as 
there  are  happy  ones;  mine  is  not  yours.  But  let  us 
talk  no  more  of  that,  nor  of  the  past,  nor  of  the  future; 
let  us  talk  of  the  present." 

He  rose, and,  taking  her  in  his  arms,  made  her  sit  next 
to  him  on  the  sofa. 

[260] 


CONSCIENCE 

The  sound  of  the  doorbell  made  Saniel  jump  as  if 
he  had  received  an  electric  shock. 

"You  will  not  open  the  door?"  Phillis  said.  "Do 
not  let  any  one  take  our  evening  from  us." 

But  soon  another  ring,  more  decided,  brought  him 
to  his  feet. 

"It  is  better  to  know,"  he  said,  and  he  went  to  open 
the  door,  leaving  Phillis  in  his  office. 

A  maid  handed  him  a  lettter. 

"From  Madame  Dammauville,"  she  said;  "there  is 
an  answer." 

He  left  her  in  the  vestibule,  and  returned  to  his  office 
to  read  the  letter.  The  dream  had  not  lasted  long; 
reality  seized  him  with  its  pitiless  hands.  This  letter, 
certainly,  would  announce  the  blow  that  menaced  him. 

"If  Dr.  Saniel  is  disengaged,  I  beg  that  he  will  come  to  see  me 
this  evening  on  an  urgent  affair;  I  will  wait  for  him  until  ten 
o'clock.  If  not,  I  count  on  seeing  him  to-morrow  morning  after 
nine  o'clock.  "A.  Dammauville." 

He  returned  to  the  vestibule. 

"Say  to  Madame.  Dammauville  that  I  shall  be  there 
in  a  quarter  of  an  hour." 

When  he  reentered  the  office  he  found  Phillis  before 
the  glass,  putting  on  her  hat. 

"I  heard,"  she  said.  "What  a  disappointment! 
But  I  cannot  wish  you  to  stay,  since  it  is  for  Florentin 
that  you  leave  me." 

As  she  walked  toward  the  door  he  stopped  her. 

"Embrace  me  once  more." 

Never  had  he  pressed  her  in  such  a  long  and  passion- 
ate embrace. 

[261] 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 

ON  THE  RACK 

;ANIEL  had  not  a  second  of  doubt; 
Madame  Dammauville  did  not  wish 
a  professional  visit  from  him.  She 
wished  to  speak  to  him  of  Caffie,  and, 
in  the  coming  crisis,  he  said  to  himself 
that  perhaps  it  was  fortunate  that  it 
was  so;  at  least  he  would  be  first  to 
know  what  she  had  decided  to  do,  and 
he  could  defend  himself.  Nothing  is  hopeless  as  long 
as  a  struggle  is  possible. 

He  rang  the  bell  with  a  firm  hand,  and  the  door  was 
opened  by  the  maid  who  brought  the  letter.  With  a 
small  lamp  in  her  hand,  she  conducted  him  through  the 
dining-room  and  the  salon  to  Madame  Dammauville's 
bedroom. 

At  the  threshold,  a  glance  showed  him  that  some 
changes  had  been  made  in  the  arrangement  of  the  furni- 
ture. The  small  bed  where  he  had  seen  Madame  Dam- 
mauville was  placed  between  the  two  windows,  and  she 
was  l)mig  in  a  large  bed  with  canopy  and  curtains. 
Near  her  was  a  table  on  which  were  a  shaded  lamp,  some 
books,  a  blotting-book,  a  teapot,  and  a  cup;  on  the 
wliite  quilt  rested  an  unusually  long  bellrope,  so  that 
she  might  pull  it  without  moving.    The  fire  in  the 

[  262  ] 


CONSCIENCE 

chimney  was  out,  but  the  movable  stove  sent  out  a  heat 
that  denoted  it  was  arranged  for  the  night. 

Saniel  felt  the  heat,  and  mechanically  unbuttoned  his 
overcoat. 

"If  the  heat  is  uncomfortable,  will  you  not  remove 
your  overcoat?"  Madame  Dammauville  said. 

While  he  disposed  of  it  and  his  hat,  placing  them  on 
a  chair  by  the  fireplace,  he  heard  Madame  Dammau- 
ville say  to  her  maid : 

"Remain  in  the  salon,  and  tell  the  cook  not  to  go  to 
bed." 

What  did  this  mean  ?  Was  she  afraid  that  he  would 
cut  her  throat  ? 

"Will  you  come  close  to  my  bed?"  she  said.  "It  is 
important  that  we  should  talk  without  raising  our 
voices." 

He  took  a  chair  and  seated  himself  at  a  certain  dis- 
tance from  the  bed,  and  in  such  a  way  that  he  was  be- 
yond the  circle  of  light  thrown  by  the  lamp.  Then  he 
waited. 

A  moment  of  silence,  which  he  found  terribly  long, 
slipped  away  before  she  spoke. 

"You  know,"  she  said  at  last,  "how  I  saw,  accident- 
ally, from  this  place" — she  pointed  to  one  of  the  win- 
dows— "the  face  of  the  assassin  of  my  unfortunate 
tenant,  Monsieur  Caffie." 

"Mademoiselle  Cormier  has  told  me,"  he  replied  in 
a  tone  of  ordinary  conversation. 

"Perhaps  you  are  astonished  that  at  such  a  distance 
I  saw  the  face  clearly  enough  to  recognize  it  after  five 
months,  as  if  it  were  still  before  me." 

[263] 


HECTOR  MALOT 

"It  is  extraordinary." 

"Not  to  those  who  have  a  memory  for  faces  and  atti- 
tudes; with  me  this  memory  has  always  been  strongly 
developed.  I  remember  the  playmates  of  my  child- 
hood, and  I  see  them  as  they  were  at  six  and  ten  years 
of  age,  without  the  slightest  confusion  in  my  mind." 

"The  impressions  of  childhood  are  generally  vivid 
and  permanent." 

"This  persistency  does  not  only  apply  to  my  childish 
impressions.  To-day,  I  neither  forget  nor  confound  a 
physiognomy.  Perhaps  if  I  had  had  many  acquaint- 
ances, and  if  I  had  seen  a  number  of  persons  every  day, 
there  might  be  some  confusion  in  my  mind ;  but  such  is 
not  the  case.  My  delicate  health  has  obliged  me  to 
lead  a  very  quiet  life,  and  I  remember  every  one  whom 
I  have  met.  When  I  think  of  such  a  one,  it  is  not  of 
the  name  at  first,  but  of  the  physiognomy.  Each  time 
that  I  have  been  to  the  Senate  or  to  the  Chamber,  I  did 
not  need  to  ask  the  names  of  the  deputies  or  senators 
who  spoke ;  I  had  seen  their  portraits  and  I  recognized 
them.  If  I  go  into  these  details  it  is  because  they  are 
of  great  importance,  as  you  will  see." 

It  was  not  necessary  for  her  to  point  out  their  impor- 
tance; he  understood  her  only  too  well. 

" In  fine,  I  am  thus,"  she  continued.  "It  is,  therefore, 
not  astonishing  that  the  physiognomy  and  the  attitude 
of  the  man  who  drew  the  curtains  in  Monsieur  CaflSe's 
office  should  not  leave  my  memory.  You  admit  this, 
do  you  not?" 

"Since  you  consult  me,  I  must  tell  you  that  the  oper- 
ations of  the  memory  are  not  so  simple  as  people  imag- 

[264] 


CONSCIENCE 

ine.  They  comprise  three  things:  the  conservation  of 
certain  states,  their  reproduction  and  localization  in  the 
past,  which  should  be  reunited  to  constitute  the  perfect 
memory.  Now  this  reunion  does  not  always  take  place, 
and  often  the  third  is  lacking." 

"I  do  not  grasp  your  meaning  very  well.  But  what 
is  the  third  thing?" 

"Recognition." 

"Well,  I  can  assure  you  that  in  this  case  it  is  not 
lacking!" 

The  action  beginning  in  this  way,  it  was  of  the  utmost 
importance  for  Saniel  that  he  should  throw  doubts  in 
Madame  Dammauville's  mind,  and  should  make  her 
think  that  this  memory  of  which  she  felt  so  sure  was  not, 
perhaps,  as  strong  or  as  perfect  as  she  imagined. 

"It  is,"  he  said,  "exactly  this  third  thing  that  is  the 
most  delicate,  the  most  complex  of  the  three,  since  it 
supposes,  besides  the  state  of  consciousness,  some  sec- 
ondary states,  variable  in  number  and  in  degree, which, 
grouped  around  it,  determine  it." 

Madame  Dammauville  remained  silent  a  moment, 
and  Saniel  saw  that  she  made  an  effort  to  explain  these 
obscure  words  to  herself. 

"I  do  not  understand,"  she  said  at  last. 

This  was  exactly  what  he  wished ;  yet,  as  it  would  not 
be  wise  to  let  her  believe  that  he  desired  to  deceive  or 
confuse  her,  he  thought  he  might  be  a  little  more  pre- 
cise. 

"I  wish  to  ask,"  he  said,  "if  you  are  certain  that  in 
the  mechanism  of  the  vision  and  that  of  the  recognition, 
which  is  a  vision  of  the  past,  there  is  no  confusion  ?" 

[265] 


HECTOR  MALOT 

She  drew  a  long  breath,  evidently  satisfied  to  get  rid 
of  these  subtleties  that  troubled  her. 

"It  is  exactly  because  I  admit  the  possibility  of  this 
confusion,  at  least  in  part,  that  I  sent  for  you,"  she  said, 
"in  order  that  you  might  establish  it." 

Saniel  appeared  not  to  comprehend. 

"I,  Madame?" 

"  Yes.  When  you  came  here  with  Monsieur  Balzajette 
a  few  hours  ago,  you  must  have  observed  that  I  exam- 
ined you  in  a  way  that  was  scarcely  natural.  Before 
the  lamps  were  lighted,  and  when  you  turned  your  back 
to  the  daylight,  I  tried  in  vain  to  remember  where  I  had 
seen  you.  I  was  certain  that  I  found  in  you  some  points 
of  resemblance  to  a  physiognomy  I  had  known,  but 
the  name  attached  to  this  physiognomy  escaped  me. 
When  you  returned,  and  I  saw  you  more  clearly  by  lamp- 
light, my  recollections  became  more  exact;  when  I 
raised  the  lamp-shade  the  light  struck  you  full  in  the 
face,  and  then  your  eyes,  so  characteristic,  and  at  the 
same  time  a  violent  contraction  of  your  features,  made 
me  recall  the  name.  This  physiognomy,  these  eyes, 
this  face, belonged  to  the  man  whom  from  this  place" — 
she  pointed  to  the  window — "I  saw  draw  Monsieur 
Caffie's  curtains." 

Saniel  did  not  flinch. 

"This  is  a  resemblance  that  would  be  hard  for  me," 
he  said,  "if  your  memory  were  faithful." 

"I  tell  myself  that  it  may  not  be.  And  after  the  first 
feeling  of  surprise  which  made  me  cry  out,  I  was  con- 
firmed in  this  thought  on  recalling  the  fact  that  you 
did  not  wear  the  long  hair  and  blond  beard  that  the 

[266] 


CONSCIENCE 

man  wore  who  drew  the  curtains;  but  at  tnat  mo- 
ment Monsieur  Balzajette  spoke  of  the  hair  and  beard 
that  you  had  had  cut.  I  was  prostrated.  However, 
I  had  the  strength  to  ask  if  you  had  had  any  busi- 
ness with  Monsieur  Caffie.  Do  you  remember  your 
answer?" 

"Perfectly." 

"After  your  departure  I  experienced  a  cruel  anguish. 
It  was  you  whom  I  had  seen  draw  the  curtains,  and  it 
cduld  not  be  you.  I  tried  to  think  what  I  ought  to  do — 
to  inform  the  judge  or  to  ask  you  for  an  interview.  For 
a  long  time  I  wavered.  At  length  I  decided  on  the  in- 
terview, and  I  wrote  to  you." 

"I  have  come  at  your  call,  but  I  declare  that  I  do 
not  know  what  to  reply  to  this  strange  communication. 
You  believe  that  you  recognize  in  me  the  man  who  drew 
the  curtains." 

"I  recognize  you." 

"Then  what  do  you  wish  me  to  say  ?  It  is  not  a  con- 
sultation that  you  ask  of  me  ?  " 

She  believed  she  understood  the  meaning  of  this  re- 
ply and  divined  its  end. 

"The  question  does  not  concern  me,"  she  said, 
"neither  my  moral  nor  mental  state,  but  yourself.  My 
eyes,  my  memory,  my  conscience,  bring  a  frightful  ac- 
cusation against  you.  I  cannot  believe  my  eyes  or  my 
memory.  I  challenge  my  conscience,  and  I  ask  vou  to 
reduce  this  accusation  to  nothing." 

"And  how,  Madame?" 

"Oh,  not  by  protestations!" 

"How  can  you  expect  that  a  man  in  my  position  will 
[267] 


HECTOR  MALOT 

lower  himself  to  discuss  accusations  that  rest  on  an  hal- 
lucination?" 

"Do  you  believe  that  I  have  hallucinations?  If  you 
do,  call  one  of  your  confreres  to-morrow  in  consultation. 
If  he  believes  as  you  do,  I  will  submit ;  if  not,  I  shall  be 
convinced  that  I  saw  clearly,  and  I  shall  act  accord- 
ingly." 

"  If  you  saw  clearly,  Madame,  and  I  am  ready  to  con- 
cede this  to  you,  it  proves  that  there  is  some  one  some- 
where who  is  my  double." 

"I  said  this  to  myself;  and  it  is  exactly  this  idea  that 
made  me  write  to  you.  I  wished  to  give  you  the  oppor- 
tunity of  proving  that  you  could  not  be  this  man." 

"You  will  agree  that  it  is  difficult  for  me  to  admit  a 
discussion  on  such  an  accusation." 

"  One  may  j&nd  one's  self  accused  by  a  concourse  of 
fatal  circumstances,  and  be  not  less  innocent.  Witness 
the  unfortunate  boy  imprisoned  for  five  months  for  a 
crime  of  which  he  is  not  guilty.  And  I  pass  from  your 
innocence  as  from  his,  to  ask  you  to  prove  that  the 
charges  against  you  are  false." 

"  There  are  no  charges  against  me." 

"There  may  be;  that  depends  upon  yourself.  Your 
hair  and  beard  may  have  been  cut  at  the  time  of  the 
assassination;  in  that  case  it  is  quite  certain  that  the 
man  I  saw  was  not  you,  and  that  I  am  the  victim  of  an 
hallucination.    Were  they  or  were  they  not  ?  " 

" They  were  not;  it  is  only  a  few  days  since  I  had  them 
cut  on  account  of  a  contagious  disease." 

"It  may  be,"  she  continued,  without  appearing  to  be 
impressed  by  this  explanation,  "that  the  day  of  the 

[268] 


CONSCIENCE 

assassination,  at  the  hour  when  I  saw  you,  you  were 
occupied  somewhere  in  such  a  way  that  you  can  prove 
you  could  not  have  been  in  the  Rue  Sainte-Anne,  and 
that  I  was  the  victim  of  an  hallucination.  And  again, 
it  may  be  that  at  the  time  your  position  was  not  that  of 
a  man  at  the  last  extremity,  forced  to  crime  by  misery 
or  ambition,  and  that  consequently  you  had  no  interest 
in  committing  the  crime  of  a  desperate  man.  What  do 
I  know?  Twenty  other  means  of  defence  may  be  in 
your  hands." 

"You  cited  the  example  of  this  poor  boy  who  is  im- 
prisoned, although  innocent.  Would  it  not  be  appli- 
•cable  to  me  if  you  did  not  recognize  the  error  of  your 
eyes  or  your  memory?  Would  he  not  be  condemned 
without  your  testimony?  Should  I  not  be  if  I  do  not 
find  one  that  destroys  your  accusation  ?  And  I  see  no 
one  from  whom  I  can  ask  this  testimony.  Have  you 
thought  of  the  infamy  with  which  such  an  accusation 
will  cover  me  ?  If  I  repel  it,  and  I  shall  repel  it,  will  it 
not  have  dishonored  me,  ruined  me  forever?" 

"It  is  just  because  I  thought  of  this  that  I  sent  for 
you,  to  the  end  that  by  an  explanation  that  you  would 
give,  it  seemed  to  me,  you  would  prevent  me  from  in- 
forming the  judge  of  this  suspicion.  This  explana- 
tion you  do  not  give  me;  I  must  now  think  only  of  him 
whose  innocence  is  proved  for  me,  and  take  his  side 
against  him  whose  guilt  is  not  less  proved.  To-morrow 
I  shall  inform  the  judge." 

"You  will  not  do  that!" 

"My  duty  compels  me  to;  and  whatever  might  come, 
I  have  always  done  my  duty.    For  me,  in  this  horrible 

[269] 


HECTOR  MALOT 

affair,  there  is  the  cause  of  the  innocent  and  of  the 
guilty,  and  I  place  myself  on  the  side  of  the  innocent." 

"I  can  prove  to  you  that  it  was  an  aberration  of 
vision " 

"You  will  prove  it  to  the  judge;  the  law  will  appre- 
ciate it." 

He  rose  brusquely.  She  put  her  hand  on  the  bell- 
cord.  They  looked  at  each  other  for  a  moment,  and 
what  their  lips  did  not  express  their  eyes  said : 

"I  do  not  fear  you;  my  precautions  are  taken." 

"That  bell  will  not  save  you." 

At  last  he  spoke  in  a  hoarse  and  quivering  voice: 

"To  you  the  responsibility  of  whatever  happenSj 
Madame." 

"I  accept  it  before  God,"  she  said,  with  a  calm  firm- 
ness.    ' '  D  ef end  yourself. ' ' 

He  went  to  the  armchair  on  which  he  had  placed 
his  coat  and  hat,  and  bending  down  to  take  them,  he 
noiselessly  turned  the  draught  of  the  stove. 

At  the  same  time  Madame  Dammauville  pulled  the 
bellcord;  the  maid  opened  the  door  of  the  salon. 

"Show Doctor  Saniel  to  the  door." 


[270) 


CHAPTER  XXXV 

A   SECOND  VICTIM 

^N  returning  to  his  room  Saniel  was  very 
much  cast  down,  and  without  lighting 
a  candle,  he  threw  himself  on  the  di- 
van, where  he  remained  prostrated. 

The  frightful  part  of  the  affair  was 
the  rapidity  with  which  he  condemned 
this  poor  woman  to  death,  and  with- 
out hesitation  executed  her.  To  save 
himself  she  must  die;  she  should  die.  This  time  the 
idea  did  not  turn  and  deviate  as  in  Cafh^'s  case.  Is  it 
not  true  then,  that  it  is  the  first  crime  that  costs,  and  in 
the  path  that  he  had  entered,  would  he  go  on  to  the 
end  sowing  corpses  behind  him  ? 

A  shudder  shook  him  from  head  to  foot  as  he  thought 
that  this  victim  might  not  be  the  last  that  his  safety  de- 
manded. When  she  threatened  to  warn  the  judge,  he 
only  saw  a  threat ;  if  she  spoke  he  was  lost ;  he  had  closed 
her  mouth.  But  had  not  this  mouth  opened  before  he 
closed  it?  Had  she  not  already  spoken?  Before  de- 
ciding on  this  interview  she  may  have  told  all  to  some 
one  of  her  friends,  who,  between  the  time  of  his  depar- 
ture with  Balzajette  and  his  return,  might  have  visited 
her,  or  to  some  one  for  whom  she  had  sent  for  advice. 
In  that  case,  those  also  were  condemned  to  death. 

[271] 


HECTOR  MALOT 

A  useless  crime,  or  a  series  of  crimes  ? 

The  horror  that  rose  within  him  was  so  strong  that 
he  thought  of  running  to  the  Rue  Sainte-Anne;  he 
would  awake  the  sleeping  household,  open  the  doors, 
break  the  windows,  and  save  her.  But  between  his 
departure  and  this  moment  the  carbonic  acid  and  the 
oxide  of  carbon  had  had  time  to  produce  asphyxia- 
tion, and  certainly  he  would  arrive  after  her  death;  or, 
if  he  found  her  still  living,  some  one  would  discover 
that  the  draught  of  the  stove  had  been  turned,  and 
seeing  it,  he  would  betray  himself  as  surely  as  by  an 
avowal. 

After  all,  the  maid  might  have  discovered  that 
the  draught  was  turned,  and  in  that  case  she  was 
saved  and  he  was  lost.  Chance  would  decide  between 
them. 

There  are  moments  when  a  shipwrecked  man,  tired 
of  swimming,  not  knowing  to  which  side  to  direct  his 
course,  without  light,  without  guide,  at  the  end  of 
strength  and  hope,  floats  on  his  back  and  lets  himself 
be  tossed  by  the  waves,  to  rest  and  wait  for  light.  This 
was  his  case;  he  could  do  nothing  but  wait. 

He  would  not  commit  the  insane  folly  of  wishing  to 
see  and  know,  as  in  Cafhe's  case;  he  would  know  the 
result  soon  enough,  too  soon. 

Rising,  he  lighted  a  candle,  and  paced  up  and  down 
his  apartment  like  a  caged  animal.  Then  it  occurred  to 
him  that  those  underneath  would  hear  his  steps;  doubt- 
less they  would  remark  this  agitated  march,  would  be 
surprised,  and  would  ask  an  explanation.  In  his  posi- 
tion he  must  take  care  not  to  give  cause  for  any  remark 

[272] 


CONSCIENCE 

that  could  not  be  explained.  He  took  off  his  boots  and 
continued  his  walk. 

But  why  had  she  spoken  to  him  of  double  weather- 
strips at  the  doors  and  windows,  of  hangings  on  the 
walls,  of  thick  curtains  ?  It  was  she  who  thus  suggested 
to  him  the  idea  of  the  draught  of  the  stove,  which  would 
not  have  come  to  him  spontaneously. 

The  night  passed  in  such  agitating  thoughts;  at  times 
the  hours  seemed  to  stand  still,  and  again  they  flew  with 
astounding  rapidity.  One  moment  the  perspiration 
fell  from  his  forehead  on  his  hands;  at  another  he  felt 
frozen. 

When  his  windows  grew  light  with  the  dawn,  he  threw 
himself  prostrated  and  shuddering  on  the  divan,  and 
leaning  on  a  cushion  he  detected  the  odor  of  Phillis; 
burying  his  head  in  it  he  remained  motionless  and 
slept. 

A  ring  of  the  bell  woke  him,  horrified,  frightened ;  he 
did  not  know  where  he  was.  It  was  broad  daylight, 
carriages  rumbled  through  the  street.  A  second  ring 
sounded  stronger,  more  violent.  Shivering,  he  went  to 
open  the  door,  and  recognized  the  maid  who  the  pre- 
vious evening  brought  a  note  from  Madame  Dammau- 
ville.  He  did  not  need  to  question  her:  fate  was  on 
his  side.  His  eyes  became  dim ;  without  seeing  her  he 
heard  the  maid  explain  why  she  had  come. 

She  had  been  to  Monsieur  Balzajette;  he  was  in  the 
country.  Her  mistress  was  nearly  cold  in  her  bed ;  she 
neither  spoke  nor  breathed,  yet  her  face  was  pink. 

"I  will  go  with  you." 

He  did  not  need  to  learn  more.  That  rosy  color, 
i8  [273] 


HECTOR  MALOT 

which  has  been  observed  in  those  asphyxiated  by  oxide 
of  carbon,  decided  it.  However,  he  questioned  the 
maid. 

Nothing  had  occurred ;  she  had  talked  with  the  cook 
in  the  kitchen,  who,  near  midnight,  went  to  her  room  in 
the  fifth  story,  and  then  she  went  to  bed  in  a  small  room 
contiguous  to  that  of  her  mistress.  During  the  night 
she  heard  nothing;  in  the  morning  she  found  her  mis- 
tress in  the  state  she  mentioned,  and  immediately  went 
for  Monsieur  Balzajette. 

Continuing  his  questions,  Saniel  asked  her  what  Ma- 
dame Dammauville  did  after  the  consultation  with 
Monsieur  Balzajette. 

''She  dined  as  usual,  but  less  than  usual,  eating  al- 
most nothing;  then  she  received  a  visit  from  one  of  her 
friends,  who  remained  only  a  few  minutes,  before  start- 
ing on  a  voyage." 

This  was  what  he  dreaded :  Madame  Dammauville 
might  have  told  this  friend.  If  this  were  so,  his  crime 
would  be  of  no  use  to  him ;  where  would  it  carry  him  ? 

After  a  few  moments,  and  in  a  tone  that  he  tried  to 
render  indifiFerent,  he  asked  the  name  of  this  friend. 

"A  friend  of  her  youth,  Madame  Thezard,  living  at 
No.  9,  in  the  Rue  des  Capucines,  the  wife  of  a  consul." 

Until  he  reached  the  house  in  the  Rue  Sainte-Anne 
he  repeated  this  name  and  address  to  himself,  which  he 
could  not  write  down,  and  which  he  must  not  forget, 
for  it  was  from  there  now  that  the  danger  would  come 
if  Madame  Dammauville  had  spoken. 

For  a  long  time  he  had  been  habituated  to  the  sight 
of  death,  but  when  he  found  himself  in  the  presence 

[274] 


CONSCIENCE 

of  this  woman  stretched  on  her  bed  as  if  she  slept,  a 
shiver  seized  him. 

"  Give  me  a  mirror  and  a  candle,"  he  said  to  the  maid 
and  the  cook  who  stood  at  the  door,  not  daring  to  enter. 

While  they  went  in  search  of  these  things  he  walked 
over  to  the  stove;  the  draught  remained  as  he  had 
turned  it  on  the  previous  evening;  he  opened  it  and  re- 
turned to  the  bed. 

His  examination  was  not  long;  she  had  succumbed 
to  asphyxiation  caused  by  the  gas  from  the  charcoal. 
Did  it  proceed  from  the  construction  of  the  stove,  or 
from  a  defect  in  the  chimney  ?  The  inquest  would  de- 
cide this;  as  for  him,  he  could  only  prove  the  death. 

On  leaving  him  the  evening  before,  Phillis,  uneasy, 
told  him  that  she  would  come  early  in  the  morning  to 
know  what  Madame  Dammauville  wished.  When  he 
told  her  she  was  dead  she  was  prostrated  with  despair; 
in  that  case  Florentin  was  lost.  He  tried  to  reassure 
her,  but  without  success. 

NougarMe,  also,  was  in  despair,  and  regretted  that 
he  had  not  proceeded  otherwise.  And  he  tried  to  reas- 
sure Phillis;  the  prosecution  rested  on  the  button  and 
the  struggle  that  had  torn  it  off.  Saniel  would  destroy 
this  hypothesis;  he  counted  on  him. 

Saniel  became,  then,  as  he  had  been  before  the  inter- 
vention of  Madame  Dammauville,  the  only  hope  of 
Phillis  and  her  mother,  and  to  encourage  them  he 
exaggerated  the  influence  that  his  testimony  would  have. 

"When  I  shall  have  demonstrated  that  there  was  no 
struggle,  the  hypothesis  of  the  torn  button  will  crumble 
by  itself." 

[275] 


HECTOR  MALOT 

"And  if  it  is  sustained,  how  and  with  what  shall  we 
overthrow  it?" 

If  he  had  appeared  as  usual,  she  would  have  shared 
the  confidence  with  which  he  tried  to  inspire  her;  but 
since  the  death  of  Madame  Dammauville  he  was  so 
changed,  that  she  could  not  help  being  uneasy.  Evi- 
dently it  was  Madame  Dammauville's  death  that  made 
him  so  gloomy  and  irritable  that  he  would  submit  to  no 
opposition.  He  saw  the  dangers  of  the  situation  that  this 
death  created  for  Florentin,  and  with  his  usual  generosity 
he  reproached  himself  for  not  having  consented  to  take 
care  of  her  sooner;  he  would  have  saved  her,  certainly, 
as  he  had  begun  by  demanding  the  removal  of  the 
stove,  and  Florentin  would  have  been  saved  also. 

The  day  of  the  trial  arrived  without  a  word  from  Ma- 
dame Thezard,  which  proved  that  Madme  Dammau- 
ville had  said  nothing  to  her  friend.  It  was  six  months 
since  the  assassination  occurred,  and  the  affair  had  lost 
all  interest  for  the  Parisian  public;  in  the  provinces  it 
was  still  spoken  of,  but  at  Paris  it  was  a  thing  of  the  past. 
There  is  no  romance  about  a  clerk  who  cuts  the  throat 
of  his  employer  to  rob  him;  there  is  no  woman  in  the 
case,  no  mystery. 

Saniel  preferred  that  Phillis  should  remain  at  home 
with  her  mother,  but  in  spite  of  his  wishes  and  prayers 
she  insisted  on  going  to  court.  She  must  be  there  so 
that  Florentin  would  see  her  and  take  courage;  he 
would  defend  himself  better  if  she  were  there. 

He  defended  himself  badly,  or  at  least  indifferently, 
like  a  man  who  gives  up  because  he  knows  beforehand 
that  whatever  he  may  say  will  be  useless. 

[276] 


CONSCIENCE 

Until  Saniel's  deposition  the  witnesses  who  testified 
were  insignificant  enough,  and  revealed  nothing  that 
was  not  already  known ;  only  Valerius,  with  his  preten- 
sions to  a  professional  secret,  which  he  developed  slowly, 
amused  the  audience.  This  deposition  Saniel  made 
brief  and  exact,  contenting  himself  with  repeating  his 
report.  But  then  Nougarede  rose,  and  begged  the 
president  to  ask  the  witness  to  explain  the  struggle 
which  should  have  taken  place  between  the  victim  and 
his  assassin ;  and  the  president,  who  had  commenced  by 
arguing,  before  the  insistence  of  the  defence,  decided  to 
ask  this  question.  Then  Saniel  slowly  explained  how 
the  position  of  the  body  in  the  armchair  and  his  con- 
dition were  scientific  proof  that  there  was  no  struggle. 

"This  is  an  opinion,"  said  the  president  dryly;  "the 
jury  will  appreciate  it." 

"Perfectly,"  replied  Nougar^e,  "and  I  intend  to 
make  the  jury  feel  the  weight  that  it  carries  on  the  au- 
thority of  him  who  formulated  it." 

This  phrase  for  effect  was  destined  to  invalidate  in 
advance  the  contradictions  that  the  prosecution  would, 
he  believed,  raise  against  the  testimony;  but  nothing  of 
the  kind  occurred,  and  Saniel  could  go  and  take  his 
place  beside  Phillis  without  being  called  to  the  bar  to 
sustain  his  opinion  against  a  physician  whose  scientific 
authority  would  be  opposed  to  his. 

In  default  of  Madame  Dammauville,  Nougarede 
had  summoned  the  concierge  of  Rue  Sainte-Anne,  as 
well  as  the  maid  and  the  cook,  who  had  heard  their 
mistress  say  that  the  man  who  drew  Caffi^'s  curtains 
did  not  resemble  Florentin's  portrait;  but  this  was  only 

[277] 


HECTOR  MALOT 

gossip  repeated  by  persons  of  no  importance,  who  could 
not  produce  the  effect  of  the  coup  de  thidtre  on  which  he 
had  based  his  defence. 

When  the  advocate-general  pronounced  his  address, 
it  was  evident  why  Saniel's  opinion  on  the  absence  of  a 
struggle  was  not  contradicted.  Although  the  prosecu- 
tion believed  in  this  struggle,  it  wished  to  abandon  it 
a  moment,  having  no  need  of  this  hypothesis  to  prove 
that  the  button  had  not  been  torn  off  on  falling  from  a 
ladder;  it  had  been  done  in  the  act  of  assassination,  in 
the  effort  made  to  cut  the  throat  of  the  victim  who  had 
violently  extended  the  right  arm,  and,  by  the  shock  to 
the  suspenders,  the  button  was  torn  off.  The  effect  of 
Saniel's  deposition  was  destroyed,  and  that  one  pro- 
duced by  the  testimony  of  Madame  Dammauville's 
maids,  far  less  strong,  was  also  destroyed  when  the  ad- 
vocate-general proved  that  this  gossip  turned  against 
the  accused.  She  had  seen,  it  was  said,  a  man  with 
long  hair  and  curled  beard,  draw  the  curtains;  very 
well !  Does  this  description  apply  to  the  accused  ?  To 
tell  the  truth,  it  was  said  that  she  did  not  recognize  him 
in  a  portrait  published  by  an  illustrated  paper.  Well, 
it  was  because  this  portrait  did  not  resemble  him.  Be- 
sides, was  it  possible  to  admit  that  a  woman  of  Madame 
Dammauville's  character  would  not  have  informed  the 
judge  if  she  believed  her  testimony  important  and  de- 
cisive? The  proof  that  she  considered  it  insignificant 
was  the  fact  that  she  had  kept  silent. 

Nougar^de's  eloquent  appeal  did  not  destroy  these 
two  arguments,  any  more  than  it  effaced  the  impression 
produced  by  the  money-lender  relative  to  the  theft  of 

[278] 


CONSCIENCE 

forty-five  francs.  The  jury  brought  in  a  verdict  of 
"Guilty,"  but  without  premeditation,  and  admitting  ex- 
tenuating circumstances. 

On  hearing  the  decree  that  condemned  Florentin  to 
twenty  years  of  forced  labor,  Phillis,  half  suffocated, 
clung  to  Saniel's  arm ;  but  he  could  not  give  her  the  at- 
tention he  wished,  for  Brigard,  who  came  to  the  trial  to 
assist  at  the  triumph  of  his  disciple,  accosted  him. 

"Receive  my  felicitations  for  your  deposition, my  dear 
friend ;  it  is  an  act  of  courage  that  does  you  honor.  If 
this  poor  boy  could  have  been  saved,  it  would  have  been 
by  you;  you  may  well  say  you  are  the  man  of  con- 
science." 


[279] 


CHAPTER  XXXVI 

CONSCIENCE  ASSERTS  ITSELF 

IRING  the  first  years  of  his  sojourn  in 
Paris,  Saniel  had  pubHshed  in  a  Latin 
Quarter  review  an  article  on  the 
"  Pharmacy  of  Shakespeare "  —  the 
poison  of  Hamlet,  and  of  Romeo  and 
Juliet;  and  although  since  his  choice 
of  medicine  he  read  but  little  besides 
books  of  science,  at  that  time  he  was 
obliged  to  study  the  plays  of  his  author.  From  this 
study  there  lingered  in  his  memory  a  phrase  that  for 
ten  years  had  not  risen  to  his  lips,  and  which  all 
at  once  forced  itself  uppermost  in  his  mind  with 
exasperating  persistency.  It  was  the  words  of  Mac- 
beth: 

"  Macbeth  does  murder  sleep,  the  innocent  sleep; 
Sleep,  that  knits  up  the  ravell'd  sleeve  of  care, 
The  death  of  each  day's  life,  sore  labor's  bath, 
Balm  of  hurt  minds." 

He  also  had  lost  it,  "the  innocent  sleep,  sore  labor's 
bath,  balm  of  hurt  minds."  He  had  never  been  a 
great  sleeper;  at  least  he  had  accustomed  himself  to 
the  habit,  hard  at  first,  of  passing  only  a  few  hours  in 
bed.  But  he  employed  these  few  hours  well,  sleeping 
as  the  weary  sleep,  hands  clenched,  without  dreaming, 

[280] 


CONSCIENCE 

waking,  or  moving;  and  the  thought  that  occupied  his 
mind  in  the  evening  was  with  him  on  waking  in  the 
morning,  not  having  been  put  to  flight  by  others,  any 
more  than  by  dreams. 

After  Caffie's  death  this  tranquil  and  refreshing  sleep 
continued  the  same ;  but  suddenly,  after  Madame  Dam- 
mauville's  death,  it  became  broken. 

At  first  it  did  not  bother  him.  He  did  not  sleep,  so 
much  the  better!  He  would  work  more.  But  one  can 
no  more  work  all  the  time  than  one  can  live  without 
eating.  Saniel  knew  better  than  any  one  that  the  life 
of  every  organ  is  composed  of  alternate  periods  of 
repose  and  activity,  and  he  did  not  suppose  that  he 
would  be  able  to  work  indefinitely  without  sleep.  He 
only  hoped  that  after  some  days  of  twenty  hours  of 
work  daily,  overcome  by  fatigue,  he  would  have,  in 
spite  of  everything,  four  hours  of  solid  sleep,  that 
Shakespeare  called  "sore  labor's  bath." 

He  had  not  had  these  four  hours,  and  the  law  that 
every  state  of  prolonged  excitement  brings  exhaustion 
that  should  be  refreshed  by  a  functional  rest,  was 
proved  false  in  his  case.  After  a  hard  day's  work  he 
would  go  to  bed  at  one  o'clock  in  the  morning  and 
would  go  to  sleep  immediately.  But  very  soon  he 
awoke  with  a  start,  suffocating,  covered  with  perspira- 
tion, in  a  state  of  extreme  anxiety,  his  mind  agitated  by 
hallucinations  of  which  he  could  not  rid  himself  all  at 
once.  If  he  did  not  wake  suddenly,  he  dreamed  fright- 
ful dreams,  always  of  Madame  Dammauville  or  Caffie. 
Was  it  not  curious  that  Cafii6,  who  until  then  had  been 
completely  effaced  from  his  memory,  was  resuscitated 

[281] 


HECTOR  MALOT 

by  Madame  Dammauville  in  the  night,  ghost  of  the 
darkness  that  the  dayhght  dissipated  ? 

Beheving  that  one  of  the  causes  of  these  dreams  was 
the  excitement  of  the  brain,  occasioned  by  excessive 
work  at  the  hour  when  he  should  not  exercise  it,  but 
on  the  contrary  should  allow  it  to  rest,  he  decided  to 
change  a  plan  which  produced  so  little  success.  In- 
stead of  intellectual  work  he  would  engage  in  physical 
exercise,  which,  by  exhausting  his  muscular  functions, 
would  procure  him  the  sleep  of  the  laboring  class;  and 
as  he  could  not  roll  a  wheelbarrow  nor  chop  wood, 
every  evening  after  dinner  he  walked  seven  or  eight 
miles  rapidly. 

Physical  work  succeeded  no  better  than  intellectual; 
he  endured  the  fatigue  of  butchers  and  woodchoppers, 
but  he  did  not  obtain  their  sleep.  Decidedly,  bodily 
fatigue  was  worth  no  more  than  that  of  the  brain.  It 
was  worth  even  less.  At  his  table,  plunged  in  his  books, 
or  in  his  laboratory  over  his  microscope,  he  absorbed 
himself  in  his  work,  and,  by  the  force  of  a  will  that  had 
been  long  exercised  and  submissive  to  obedience,  he 
was  able  to  keep  his  thoughts  on  the  subject  in  hand, 
without  distraction  as  without  dreams.  Time  passed. 
But  when  walking  in  the  streets  of  Paris,  in  the  de- 
serted roads  on  the  outskirts,  by  the  Seine  or  Mame, 
his  mind  wandered  where  it  would ;  it  was  the  mistress, 
and  it  always  dwelt  on  Madame  Dammauville,  Caffie, 
and  Florentin.  It  seemed  as  if  the  heat  of  walking 
started  his  brain.  When  he  returned  in  this  state,  after 
many  hours  of  cerebral  excitability,  how  could  he  find 
the  tranquil  and  refreshing  sleep,  complete  and  pro- 

[282] 


CONSCIENCE 

found,  of  the  laboring  classes  who  work  only  with  their 
muscles  ? 

Never  having  been  ill,  he  had  never  examined  nor 
treated  himself :  medicine  was  good  for  others  but  use- 
less for  him.  With  a  machine  organized  like  his  he 
need  fear  only  accidents,  and  until  now  he  had  been 
spared  them;  a  true  son  of  peasants,  he  victoriously 
resisted  Paris  life  as  the  destroyer  of  the  intellect. 
But  the  time  had  come  to  undertake  an  examination 
and  to  try  a  treatment  that  would  give  him  rest.  He 
was  not  a  sceptical  doctor,  and  he  believed  that  what 
he  ordered  for  others  was  good  for  himself. 

The  misfortune  was  that  he  could  not  find  in  him- 
self any  of  the  causes  which  resolve  into  insomnia ;  he 
had  neither  meningitis  nor  brain  fever,  nor  anything 
that  indicated  a  cerebral  tumor;  he  was  not  anaemic; 
he  ate  well;  he  did  not  suffer  with  neuralgia,  nor  with 
any  acute  or  chronic  affection  that  generally  accom- 
panied the  absence  of  sleep ;  he  drank  neither  tea  nor 
alcohol;  and  without  this  state  of  over-excitement  of 
the  encephalic  centres,  he  might  have  said  that  he  was 
in  good  health,  a  little  thin,  but  that  was  all. 

It  was  this  excitement  that  he  must  cure,  and  as 
there  are  many  remedies  for  insomnia,  he  tried  those 
which,  it  seemed  to  him,  were  suitable  to  his  case;  but 
bromide  of  potassium,  in  spite  of  its  hypnotic  proper- 
ties, produced  no  more  effect  than  the  over-working  of 
the  brain  and  body.  When  he  realized  this  he  replaced 
it  with  chloral ;  but  chloral,  which  should  create  a  desire 
to  sleep,  after  several  days  had  no  more  effect  than  the 
bromide.    Then  he  tried  injections  of  morphine. 

[283] 


HECTOR  MALOT 

It  was  not  without  a  certain  uneasiness  that  he  made 
this  third  trial,  the  first  two  having  met  with  so  httle 
success;  and  since  it  is  acknowledged  that  chloral  pro- 
duces a  calmer  sleep  than  morphine,  it  seemed  as  if  the 
latter  would  prove  as  useless  as  the  former.  However, 
he  slept  without  being  tormented  by  dreams  or  wak- 
ings, and  the  next  day  he  still  slept. 

But  he  knew  too  well  the  effects  produced  by  a 
prolonged  use  of  these  injections  to  continue  them 
beyond  what  was  strictly  indispensable;  he  therefore 
omitted  them,  and  sleep  left  him. 

He  tried  them  again;  then,  soon,  as  the  small  doses 
lost  their  efficacy,  he  gradually  increased  them.  At  the 
end  of  a  certain  time  what  he  feared  came  to  pass — his 
leanness  increased;  he  lost  his  appetite,  his  muscu- 
lar force,  and  his  moral  energy;  his  pale  face  began  to 
wear  the  characteristic  expression  of  the  morphomaniac. 

Then  he  stopped,  frightened. 

Should  he  continue,  he  would  become  a  morpho- 
maniac in  a  given  time,  and  the  apathy  into  which  he 
fell  prevented  him  from  resisting  the  desire  to  absorb 
new  doses  of  poison,  a  desire  as  imperious,  as  irresisti- 
ble in  morphinism  as  that  of  alcohol  for  the  alcoholic, 
and  more  terrible  in  its  effects — the  perversion  of  the 
intellectual  faculties,  loss  of  will,  of  memory,  of  judg- 
ment, paralysis,  or  the  mania  that  leads  to  suicide. 

If  he  did  not  continue,  and  these  sleepless  nights  or 
the  agitated  sleep  which  maddened  him  should  return, 
and  following  them,  this  over-excitement  of  the  brain 
in  troubling  the  nutrition  of  the  encephalic  mass,  it 
might  be  the  prelude  of  some  grave  cerebral  affection. 

[284] 


CONSCIENCE 

On  one  side  the  morphine  habit;  on  the  other,  de- 
mentia from  the  constant  excitement  and  disorganiza- 
tion of  the  brain. 

Between  a  fatally  certain  result  and  one  that  was 
possible  he  did  not  hesitate.  He  must  give  up  mor- 
phine, and  this  choice  forced  itself  upon  him  with  so 
much  more  strength,  because  if  morphine  assured  him 
sleep  at  night,  it  by  no  means  gave  him  tranquil  days — 
quite  the  contrary. 

He  began  to  use  this  remedy  at  night  when  he  fell 
under  the  influence  of  certain  ideas;  during  the  day 
when  applying  himself  to  work,  by  an  effort  of  will  he 
escaped  from  these  ideas,  and  was  the  man  he  had 
always  been,  master  of  his  strength  and  mind.  But 
the  action  of  the  morphine  rapidly  weakened  this  all- 
powerful  will,  so  much  so,  that  when  these  ideas  crossed 
his  mind  during  his  working  hours  he  had  not  the  en- 
ergy to  drive  them  away.  He  tried  to  shake  them 
off,  but  in  vain;  they  would  not  leave  his  brain,  to 
which  they  clung  and  encompassed  it  with  increasing 
strength. 

Truly,  those  two  corpses  troubled  him  horribly. 
Was  it  not  exasperating  for  a  man  who  had  seen  and 
dissected  so  many,  that  there  should  be  always  two 
before  his  eyes,  even  when  they  were  closed — that  of 
this  old  rascal  and  of  this  unfortunate  woman?  In 
order  not  to  complicate  this  impression  with  another 
that  humiliated  him,  he  got  rid  of  the  packages  of  bank 
bills  taken  from  Caffi^,  by  sending  them  "as  restitu- 
tion" to  the  director  of  public  charities.  But  this  had 
no  appreciable  effect. 

[285] 


HECTOR  MALOT 

The  thought  of  Florentin  troubled  him  also;  and  if 
he  saw  Cafi&e  lying  in  his  chair,  Madame  Dammau- 
ville  motionless  and  pink  on  her  bed,  to  him  it  was  not 
less  cruel  to  see  Florentin  between  the  decks  of  the 
vessel  that  would  soon  carry  him  to  New  Caledonia. 

The  ideas  on  conscience  that  he  had  expressed  at 
Crozat's,  and  those  that  he  explained  to  Phillis  about 
remorse,  were  still  his;  but  he  was  not  the  less  certain 
that  these  two  dead  persons  and  the  condemned  one 
weighed  upon  him  with  a  terrible  weight,  frightful, 
suffocating,  like  a  nightmare.  It  was  not  in  accordance 
with  his  education  nor  with  his  environment  to  have 
these  corpses  behind  him  and  this  victim  before  him. 

■  But  where  his  former  ideas  were  overthrown,  since 
these  dead  bodies  seized  hold  of  his  life,  was  in  his 
confidence  in  his  strength. 

The  strong  man  that  he  believed  himself,  he  who 
follows  his  ambition  regardless  of  things  and  of  per- 
sons, looking  only  before  him  and  never  behind,  master 
of  his  mind  as  of  his  heart  and  of  his  arm,  was  not  at 
all  the  one  that  reality  revealed. 

On  the  contrary,  he  had  been  weak  in  action  and 
yet  weaker  afterward. 

And  it  was  not  only  humiliation  in  the  present  that 
he  felt  in  acknowledging  this  weakness,  it  was  also  in 
uneasiness  for  the  future;  for,  if  he  lacked  this  strength 
that  he  attributed  to  himself  before  having  tested  it, 
he  should,  if  his  beliefs  were  true,  succumb  some  day. 

Evidently,  if  he  were  perfectly  strong  he  would  not 
have  complicated  his  life  with  love.  The  strong  walk 
alone  because  they  need  no  one.    And  he  needed  a 

[286] 


CONSCIENCE 

woman ;  and  so  great  was  the  need  that  it  was  through 
her  only,  near  her,  when  he  looked  at  her,  when  he 
listened  to  her,  that  he  experienced  a  little  calm. 

Was  he  weak  and  cowardly  on  account  of  this? 
Perhaps  not,  but  only  human. 


[287] 


CHAPTER  XXXVn 

ATTEMPTED  REPARATION 

fECAUSE  he  felt  calm  when  with  Phil- 
lis,  Saniel  wished  that  she  might  never 
leave  him. 

But,  as  happy  as  she  was  in  her  sor- 
row to  see  that  instead  of  avoiding 
her — which  a  less  generous  man  would 
have  done,  perhaps — he  sought  to  draw 
nearer  each  day,  she  could  not  give 
up  her  lessons  and  her  work,  which  was  her  daily  bread, 
to  give  all  her  time  to  her  love,  any  more  than  she  could 
leave  her  mother  entirely  alone,  crushed  with  shame, 
who  had  never  needed  so  much  as  now  to  be  cheered 
and  sustained. 

She  did  not  let  a  day  pass  without  going  to  see  Saniel; 
but  in  spite  of  her  desire  she  could  not  remain  with  him 
as  long  as  she  wished  and  he  asked.  When  she  rose  to 
go  and  he  detained  her,  she  remained,  but  it  was  only 
for  a  few  minutes;  they  were  short,  and  the  time  soon 
came  when,  after  ten  attempts,  she  was  obliged  to  leave 
him. 

At  all  times  these  separations  had  been  full  of  despair 
to  her,  the  apprehension  of  which,  from  the  moment  of 
her  arrival,  paralyzed  her;  but  now  they  were  still 
more  cruel.    Formerly,  on  leaving  him,  she  often  saw 

[288] 


CONSCIENCE 

him  deep  in  his  work  before  she  opened  the  door;  now, 
on  the  contrary,  he  conducted  her  to  the  vestibule,  de- 
tained her,  and  only  let  her  leave  him  when  she  tore  her- 
self from  his  embrace,  after  promising  and  repeating  her 
promise  to  come  early  the  next  day  and  stay  longer. 
Formerly,  also,  she  was  calm  when  she  left  him,  not 
thinking  of  his  health,  nor  asking  herself  how  she  would 
find  him  at  their  next  meeting,  strong  and  powerful,  as 
sound  in  body  as  in  mind.  On  the  contrary,  now  she 
worried  herself,  wondering  how  she  would  find  him  on 
the  occasion  of  each  visit.  Would  the  sadness,  melan- 
choly, and  dejection  still  remain  ?  Would  he  be  thinner 
and  paler?  It  was  her  care,  her  anguish,  to  try  to  di- 
vine the  causes  of  the  change  in  him,  which  manifested 
itself  as  strongly  in  his  sentiments  as  in  his  person.  Was 
it  not  truly  extraordinary  that  he  was  more  grave  and 
uneasy  now  that  his  life  was  assured  than  during  the 
hard  times  when  he  was  so  worried  that  he  never  knew 
what  the  morrow  would  bring?  He  had  obtained  the 
position  that  his  ambition  coveted;  he  had  sufficient 
money  for  his  wants;  he  admitted  that  his  experiments 
had  succeeded  beyond  his  expectations;  the  essays  that 
he  published  on  his  experiments  were  loudly  discussed, 
praised  by  some,  contested  by  others ;  it  seemed  that  he 
had  attained  his  object;  and  he  was  sad,  discontented, 
unhappy,  more  tormented  than  when  he  exhausted  him- 
self with  efforts,  without  other  support  than  his  will.  At 
last,  when  frightened  to  see  him  thus,  she  questioned 
him  as  to  how  he  felt,  he  became  angry,  and  answered 
brutally: 
"111?  Why  do  you  think  that  I  am  ill?  Am  I  not 
19  [289] 


HECTOR  MALOT 

better  able  than  any  one  to  know  how  I  am?  I  am 
overworked,  that  is  all ;  and  as  my  life  of  privation  does 
not  permit  me  to  repair  my  forces,  I  have  become  anae- 
mic; it  is  not  serious.  It  is  strange,  truly,  that  you  ask 
for  explanations  of  what  is  natural.  Count  the  teeth  of 
the  polytechnicians  and  look  at  their  hair  after  their  ex- 
aminations, and  tell  me  what  you  think  of  them.  Why 
do  you  think  anything  else  is  the  matter  with  me  ?  One 
cannot  expend  one's  self  with  impunity;  that  would  be 
too  good.    Everything  must  be  paid  for  in  this  world." 

She  was  obliged  to  believe  that  he  was  right  and 
understood  his  condition;  however,  she  could  not  help 
worrying.  She  knew  nothing  of  medicine;  she  did  not 
know  the  meaning  of  the  medical  terms  he  used,  but  she 
found  that  this  was  not  sufficient  to  explain  all — nei- 
ther his  roughness  of  temper  and  excess  of  anger  with- 
out reason,  any  more  than  his  sudden  tenderness,  his 
weakness  and  dejection,  his  preoccupation  and  absence 
of  mind. 

She  discovered  the  effect  she  produced  on  him,  and 
how,  merely  by  her  presence,  she  cheered  this  gloomy 
fancy  and  raised  this  depression  by  not  asking  him 
stupid  questions  on  certain  subjects  which  she  had  not 
yet  determined  on,  but  which  she  hoped  to  avoid.  Also, 
she  did  not  wish  to  leave  him,  and  ingeniously  invented 
excuses  to  go  to  see  him  twice  a  day;  in  the  morning  on 
going  to  her  lessons,  and  in  the  afternoon  or  evening. 

Late  one  evening  she  rang  his  bell  with  a  hand  made 
nervous  with  joy. 

"I  have  come  to  stay  till  to-morrow,"  she  said,  in 
triumphant  tones. 

[290] 


CONSCIENCE 

She  expected  that  he  would  express  his  joy  by  an 
embrace,  but  he  did  nothing. 

"Are  you  going  out?" 

"Not  at  all;  I  am  not  thinking  of  myself,  but  of  your 
mother." 

"  Do  you  think  that  I  would  have  left  her  alone  in  her 
weak  and  nervous  state?  A  cousin  of  ours  arrived 
from  the  country,  who  will  occupy  my  bed,  and  I  prof- 
ited by  it  quick  enough,  saying  that  I  would  remain  at 
the  school.    And  here  I  am." 

In  spite  of  his  desire  for  it,  he  had  never  dared  ask 
her  to  pass  the  night  with  him.  During  the  day  he 
would  only  betray  himself  by  his  sad  or  fantastic  tem- 
per; but  at  night,  with  such  dreams  as  came  to  him, 
might  not  some  word  escape  that  would  betray  him  ? 

However,  since  she  was  come  it  was  impossible  to 
send  her  away ;  he  could  not  do  it  for  her  nor  for  him- 
self. What  pretext  could  he  find  to  say,  "Go!  I  do 
not  want  you?"  He  wanted  her  above  all ;  he  wanted 
to  look  at  her,  to  listen  to  her,  to  hear  her  voice  that 
soothed  and  lulled  his  anguish,  to  feel  her  near  him — 
only  to  have  her  there,  and  not  be  face  to  face  with  his 
thoughts. 

She  examined  him  secretly,  asking  herself  the  cause 
of  this  singular  reception,  standing  at  the  entrance  of 
the  office,  not  daring  to  remove  her  hat.  How  could  her 
arrival  produce  an  effect  so  different  from  what  she  ex- 
pected ? 

"You  do  not  take  off  your  hat?"  he  said. 

"I  was  asking  myself  if  you  had  to  work." 

"Why  do  you  ask  yourself  that?" 
[  291  ] 


HECTOR  MALOT 

"For  fear  of  disturbing  you." 

"What  a  madness  you  have  for  always  asking 
something!"  he  exclaimed  violently.  "What  do  you  ex- 
pect me  to  say  ?  What  astonishes  you  ?  Why  should 
you  disturb  me?  In  what?  Voyons,  speak,  explain 
yourself!" 

The  time  was  far  distant  when  these  explosions  sur- 
prised her,  though  they  always  pained  her. 

"I  speak  stupidly,"  she  said.  "What  will  you?  I 
am  stupid;  forgive  me." 

These  words,  "forgive  me,"  were  more  cruel  than 
numberless  reproaches,  for  he  well  knew  that  he  had 
nothing  to  forgive  in  her,  since  she  was  the  victim  and 
he  the  criminal.  Should  he  never  be  able  to  master 
these  explosions,  as  imprudent  as  they  were  unjust  ? 

He  took  her  in  his  arms  and  made  her  sit  by  him. 

"It  is  for  you  to  forgive,"  he  said. 

And  he  was  as  tender  and  caressing  as  he  had  been 
brutal.  He  was  a  fool  to  imagine  that  she  could  have 
suspicions,  and  the  surest  way  to  give  birth  to  them 
was  to  show  fear  that  she  had  them.  To  betray  himself 
by  such  awkwardness  was  as  serious  as  to  let  a  cry 
escape  him  while  sleeping. 

But  for  this  night  he  had  a  way  which  was  in  reality 
not  difficult,  that  would  not  expose  him  to  the  danger 
of  talking  in  his  sleep— he  would  not  sleep.  After  hav- 
ing passed  so  many  nights  without  closing  his  eyes,  with- 
out doubt  he  could  keep  them  open  this  entire  night. 

But  he  deceived  himself;  when  he  heard  the  calm 
and  regular  respiration  of  Phillis  with  her  head  on  his 
shoulder,  and  felt  the  mild  warmth  of  her  body  pene- 

[292] 


CONSCIENCE 

trate  his,  in  the  quiet  imposed  upon  him,  without  being 
conscious  of  it,  believing  himself  far  from  sleep,  and 
convinced  that  he  required  no  effort  to  keep  awake,  he 
suddenly  slept. 

When  he  awoke  a  ray  of  pale  sunlight  filled  the 
room,  and  leaning  her  elbow  on  the  bolster,  PhilUs  was 
watching  him. 

He  made  a  brusque  movement,  throwing  himself 
backward. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  he  cried.  "What  have  I 
said?" 

Instantly  his  face  paled,  his  lips  quivered;  he  felt 
his  heart  beat  tumultuously  and  his  throat  pressed  by 
painful  constriction. 

"But  nothing  is  the  matter,"  she  answered,  looking 
at  him  tenderly.    "You  have  said  nothing." 

To  come  to  the  point,  why  should  he  have  spoken? 
During  his  frightful  dreams,  his  nights  of  disturbed 
sleep,  he  might  have  cried  out,  but  he  did  not  know  if 
he  had  ever  done  so.  And  besides,  he  had  not  just 
waked  from  an  agitated  sleep.  All  this  passed  through 
his  mind  in  an  instant,  in  spite  of  his  alarm. 

"What  time  is  it?"  he  asked. 

"Nearly  six  o'clock." 

"Six  o'clock!" 

"Do  you  not  hear  the  vehicles  in  the  street?  The 
street- venders  are  calling  their  wares." 

It  must  have  been  about  one  o'clock  when  he  closed 
his  eyes;  he  had  then  slept  five  hours,  profoundly,  and 
he  felt  calm,  rested,  refreshed,  his  body  active  and  his 
mind  tranquil,  the  man  of  former  times,  in  the  days  of 

[293] 


HECTOR  MALOT 

his  happy  youth,  and  not  the  half-insane  man  of  these 
last  frightful  months. 

He  breathed  a  sigh. 

"Ah,  if  I  could  have  you  always!"  he  murmured,  as 
much  to  himself  as  to  her. 

And  he  gave  her  a  long  look  mingled  with  a  sad 
smile;  then,  placing  his  arm  around  her  shoulders,  he 
pressed  her  to  him. 

"Dear  little  wife!" 

She  had  never  heard  so  profound,  so  vibrating,  a  ten- 
derness in  his  voice;  never  had  she  been  able,  until 
hearing  these  words,  to  measure  the  depth  of  the  love 
that  she  had  inspired  in  him;  and  it  even  seemed  that 
this  was  the  declaration  of  a  new  love. 

Pressing  her  passionately  to  him,  he  repeated: 

"Dear  little  wife!" 

Distracted,  lost  in  her  happiness,  she  did  not  reply. 

All  at  once  he  held  her  from  him  gently,  and  looking 
at  her  with  the  same  smile: 

"Does  this  word  tell  you  nothing?" 

"It  tells  me  that  you  love  me." 

"And  is  that  all?" 

"What  more  can  I  wish?  You  say  it,  I  feel  it.  You 
give  me  the  greatest  joy  of  which  I  can  dream." 

"It  is  enough  for  you?" 

"It  would  be  enough  if  it  need  never  be  interrupted. 
But  it  is  the  misfortune  of  our  life  that  we  are  obliged 
to  separate  at  the  time  when  the  ties  that  unite  us  are 
the  most  strongly  bound." 

"Why  should  we  separate?" 

"Alas!    Mamma?    And  daily  bread?" 
[  294  ] 


CONSCIENCE 

"If  you  did  not  leave  your  mother.  If  you  need  no 
longer  worry  about  your  life?" 

She  looked  at  him,  not  daring  to  question  him,  not 
betraying  the  direction  of  her  thoughts  except  by  a 
trembling  that  she  could  not  control  in  spite  of  her 
efforts. 

"I  mean  if  you  become  my  wife." 

"Oh,  my  beloved!" 

"Will  you  not?" 

She  threw  herself  in  his  arms,  fainting;  but  after  a 
moment  she  recovered. 

"Alas!    It  is  impossible,"  she  murmured. 

"Why  impossible ? ' ' 

"Do  not  ask  me;  do  not  oblige  me  to  say  it." 

"But,  on  the  contrary,  I  wish  you  to  tell  me." 

She  turned  her  head  away,  and  in  a  voice  that  was 
scarcely  perceptible,  in  a  stifled  sigh: 

"My  brother " 

"It  is  greatly  on  account  of  your  brother  that  I  wish 
this  marriage." 

Then,  suddenly:  "Do  you  think  me  the  man  to 
submit  to  prejudiced  blockheads?" 


[295] 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII 

THE  IMPORTANT   QUESTION 

'ANIEL  had  not  waited  until  this  day 
to  acknowledge  the  salutary  influence 
that  Phillis's  presence  exercised  over 
him,  yet  the  idea  of  making  her  his  wife 
never  occurred  to  him.  He  thought 
himself  ill-adapted  to  marriage,  and 
but  little  desirous  of  being  a  hus- 
band. Until  lately  he  had  had  no 
desire  for  a  home. 

This  idea  came  to  him  suddenly  and  took  strong  hold 
of  him;  at  least  as  much  on  account  of  the  calmness 
he  felt  in  her  presence,  as  by  the  charm  of  her  manner, 
her  health,  happiness,  and  gayety. 

It  was  not  only  physical  calm  that  she  gave  him  by  a 
mysterious  affinity  concerning  which  his  studies  told 
him  nothing,  but  of  which  he  did  not  the  less  feel  all 
the  force;  it  was  also  a  moral  calm. 

There  were  duties  he  owed  her,  and  terribly  heavy 
were  those  he  owed  her  mother  and  Florentin. 

He  did  all  he  could  for  Florentin,  but  this  was  not  all 
that  he  owed  them.  Florentin  was  in  prison;  Madame 
Cormier  fell  into  a  mournful  despair,  growing  weaker 
each  day;  and  Phillis,  in  spite  of  her  elasticity  and 
courage,  bent  beneath  the  weight  of  injustice, 

[296] 


CONSCIENCE 

How  much  the  situation  would  be  changed  if  he 
married  her — for  them,  and  for  him ! 

When  Phillis  was  a  h'ttle  recovered  from  her  great 
surprise,  she  asked  him: 

"When  did  you  decide  on  this  marriage?" 

He  did  not  wish  to  prevaricate,  and  he  answered  that 
it  was  at  that  instant  that  the  idea  came  to  him,  exact 
enough  and  strong  enough  to  give  form  to  the  ideas 
that  had  been  floating  in  his  brain  for  several  months. 

"At  least,  have  you  considered  it?  Have  you  not 
yielded  to  an  impulse  of  love?" 

"Would  it  be  better  to  yield  to  a  long,  rational  cal- 
culation ?  I  marry  you  because  I  love  you,  and  also  be- 
cause I  am  certain  that  without  you  I  cannot  be  happy. 
Frankly,  I  acknowledge  that  I  need  you,  your  tender- 
ness, your  love,  your  strength  of  character,  your  equal 
temper,  your  invincible  faith  in  hope,  which,  for  me  as 
I  am  organized,  is  worth  the  largest  dot." 

"It  is  exactly  because  I  have  no  dot  to  bring  you. 
When  you  were  at  the  last  extremity,  desperate  and 
crushed,  I  might  ask  to  become  the  wife  of  the  poor 
village  doctor  that  you  were  going  to  be;  but  to-day,  in 
your  position,  above  all  in  the  position  that  you  will 
soon  occupy,  is  poor  little  Phillis  worthy  of  you  ?  You 
give  me  the  greatest  joy  that  I  can  ever  know,  of  which 
I  have  only  dreamed  in  telling  myself  that  it  would  be 
folly  to  hope  to  have  it  realized.  But  just  that  gives 
me  the  strength  to  beg  you  to  reflect,  and  to  consider 
whether  you  will  ever  regret  this  moment  of  rapture 
that  makes  me  so  happy." 

"I  have  reflected,  and  what  you  say  proves  better 
[297] 


HECTOR  MALOT 

than  anything  that  I  do  not  deceive  myself.     I  want  a 
wife  who  loves  me,  and  you  are  that  wife." 

"  More  than  I  can  tell  you  at  this  moment,  wild  with 
happiness,  but  not  more  than  I  shall  prove  to  you  in 
the  continuance  of  our  love." 

"Besides,  dearest,  do  not  have  any  illusions  on  the 
splendors  of  this  position  of  which  you  speak;  it  is 
more  than  probable  that  they  will  never  be  realized, 
for  I  am  not  a  man  of  money,  and  will  do  nothing  to 
gain  any.    If  it  does  not  come  by  itself " 

"It  will  come." 

"That  is  not  the  object  for  which  I  work.  What  I 
wish  I  have  obtained  partly;  if  now  I  make  money  and 
obtain  a  rich  practice,  the  jealousy  of  my  confreres  will 
make  me  lose,  or  wait  too  long,  for  what  my  ambition 
prefers  to  a  fortune.  For  the  moment  this  position  will 
be  modest;  my  four  thousand  francs  of  salary,  that 
which  I  gain  at  the  central  bureau  while  waiting  to 
have  the  title  of  hospital  physician,  and  five  hundred 
francs  a  month  more  that  my  editor  offers  me  for  work 
and  a  review  of  bacteriology,  will  give  us  nearly  twelve 
thousand  francs,  and  we  must  content  ourselves  with 
that  for  some  time." 

"That  is  a  fortune  to  me." 

"To  me  also;  but  I  thought  I  ought  to  tell  you." 

"And  when  do  you  wish  our  marriage  to  take  place?" 

"Immediately  after  the  necessary  legal  delay,  and  as 
soon  as  I  am  settled  in  a  new  apartment;  for  you  could 
not  come  here  as  my  wife,  where  you  have  been  seen  so 
often.    It  would  not  be  pleasant  for  you  or  for  me." 

"Oh,  dearest!" 

[298] 


CONSCIENCE 

"And  we  will  not  be  so  foolish  as  to  put  ourselves  in 
the  hands  of  an  upholsterer;  the  first  one  cost  enough." 

He  said  these  last  words  with  fierce  energy,  but  con- 
tinued immediately: 

"What  do  we  need  ?  A  parlor  for  the  patients,  if  they 
come ;  an  office  for  me,  which  will  do  also  as  a  labora- 
tory; a  bedroom  for  us,  and  one  for  your  mother." 

"You  wish " 

.  "But  certainly.    Do  you  think  that  I  would  ask  you 
to  separate  from  her?" 

She  took  his  hand,  and  kissing  it  with  a  passionate 
impulse :  "  Oh,  the  dearest,  the  most  generous  of  men ! " 

"Do  not  let  us  talk  of  that,"  he  said  with  evident 
annoyance.  "In  your  mother's  condition  of  mental 
prostration  it  would  kill  her  to  be  left  alone;  she  needs 
you,  and  I  promise  to  help  you  to  soften  her  grief.  We 
will  make  her  comfortable;  and  although  my  nature  is 
not  very  tender,  I  will  try  to  replace  him  from  whom 
she  is  separated.  It  will  be  a  happiness  to  her  to  see 
you  happy." 

For  a  long  time  he  enlarged  upon  what  he  wished, 
feeling  a  sentiment  of  satisfaction  in  talking  of  what  he 
would  do  for  Madame  Cormier,  in  whom  at  this  time 
he  saw  the  mother  of  Florentin  more  than  that  of  Phillis. 

"Do  you  think  you  can  make  her  forget?"  he  asked 
from  time  to  time. 

"Forget?  No.  Neither  she  nor  I  can  ever  forget; 
but  it  is  certain  our  sorrow  will  be  drowned  in  our  hap- 
piness, and  this  happiness  we  shall  owe  to  you.  Oh, 
how  you  will  be  adored,  respected,  blessed!" 

Adored,  respected!    He  repeated  these  words  to  him- 
[299] 


HECTOR  MALOT 

self.  One  could,  then,  be  happy  by  making  others 
happy.  He  had  had  so  little  opportunity  until  this  time 
to  do  for  others,  that  this  was  in  some  sort  the  revela- 
tion of  a  sentiment  that  he  was  astonished  to  feel,  but 
which,  for  being  new,  was  only  the  sweeter  to  him. 

He  wished  to  give  himself  the  satisfaction  of  tasting 
all  the  sweetness. 

"Where  are  you  going  this  morning?"  he  asked. 

"I  return  to  the  school  to  help  my  pupils  prepare 
their  compositions  for  the  prize." 

"Very  well;  while  you  are  at  the  school  this  morning, 
I  will  go  to  see  your  mother.  The  process  of  asking  in 
marriage  that  we  make  use  of  is  perhaps  original,  and 
conforms  to  the  laws  of  nature,  if  nature  admits  mar- 
riage, which  I  ignore; — but  it  certainly  is  not  the  way 
of  those  of  the  world.  And  now  I  must  address  this 
request  to  your  mother." 

"What  joy  you  will  give  her!" 

"I  hope  so." 

"I  should  like  to  be  there  to  enjoy  her  happiness. 
Mamma  has  a  mania  for  marriage;  she  spends  her 
time  marrying  the  people  she  knows  or  those  she  does 
not  know.  And  she  has  felt  convinced  that  I  should  die 
in  the  yellow  skin  of  an  old  maid.  At  last,  this  evening 
she  will  have  the  happiness  of  announcing  to  me  your 
visit  and  your  request.  But  do  not  make  this  visit  until 
the  afternoon,  because  then  our  cousin  will  be  gone." 

Saniel  spent  his  morning  in  looking  for  apartments, 
and  found  one  in  a  quarter  of  the  Invalides,  which  he 
engaged. 

It  was  nearly  one  o'clock  when  he  reached  Madame 
[300] 


CONSCIENCE 

Cormier's.  As  usual,  when  he  called,  she  looked  at 
him  with  anxious  curiosity,  thinking  of  Florentin. 

"It  is  not  of  him  that  I  wish  to  speak  to  you  to-day," 
he  said,  without  pronouncing  any  name,  which  was 
unnecessary.    "It  is  of  Mademoiselle  Phillis " 

"Do  you  find  her  ill?"  Madame  Cormier  said,  who 
thought  only  of  misfortune. 

"Not  at  all.  It  is  of  her  and  of  myself  that  I  wish  to 
speak.  Do  not  be  uneasy.  I  hope  that  what  I  am  go- 
ing to  say  will  not  be  a  cause  of  sadness  to  you." 

"Pardon  me  if  I  always  see  something  to  fear.  We 
have  been  so  frightfully  tried,  so  unjustly!" 

He  interrupted  her,  for  these  complaints  did  not 
please  him. 

"For  a  long  time,"  he  said  quickly,  "Mademoiselle 
Phillis  has  inspired  me  with  a  deep  sentiment  of  esteem 
and  tenderness;  I  have  not  been  able  to  see  her  so 
courageous,  so  brave  in  adversity,  so  decided  in  her 
character,  so  good  to  you,  so  charming,  without  loving 
her,  and  I  have  come  to  ask  you  to  give  her  to  me  as  my 
wife." 

At  Saniel's  words,  Madame  Cormier's  hands  began 
to  tremble,  and  the  trembling  increased. 

"Is  it  possible?"  she  murmured,  beginning  to  cry. 
"So  great  a  happiness  for  my  daughter!  Such  an 
honor  for  us,  for  us,  for  us!" 

"I  love  her." 

"Forgive  me  if  happiness  makes  me  forget  the  con- 
ventionalities, but  I  lose  my  head.  We  are  so  unhappy 
that  our  souls  are  weak  against  joy.  Perhaps  I  should 
hide  my  daughter's  sentiments;  but  I  cannot  help  tell- 


HECTOR  MALOT 

ing  you  that  this  esteem,  this  tenderness  of  which  you 
speak,  is  felt  by  her.  I  discovered  it  long  ago,  although 
she  did  not  tell  me.  Your  request,  then,  can  only  be 
received  with  joy  by  mother,  as  well  as  daughter." 

This  was  said  brokenly,  evidently  from  an  overflow- 
ing heart.    But  all  at  once  her  face  saddened. 

"I  must  talk  to  you  sincerely,"  she  said.  "You  are 
young,  I  am  not;  and  my  age  makes  it  a  duty  for  me 
not  to  yield  to  any  impulse.  We  are  unfortunates,  you 
are  one  of  the  happy;  you  will  soon  be  rich  and  fa- 
mous. Is  it  wise  to  burden  your  life  with  a  wife  who  is 
in  my  daughter's  position?" 

With  the  exception  of  a  few  words,  this  was  Phillis's 
answer.  He  answered  the  mother  as  he  had  answered 
the  daughter. 

"It  is  not  for  you  that  I  speak,"  said  Madame 
Cormier.  "I  should  not  permit  myself  to  give  you 
advice;  it  is  in  placing  myself  at  the  point  of  view  of 
my  daughter  that  I,  her  mother,  with  the  experience  of 
my  age,  should  watch  over  her  future.  Is  it  certain  that 
in  the  struggles  of  life  you  will  never  suflEer  from  this 
marriage,  not  because  my  daughter  will  not  make  you 
happy — from  this  side  I  am  easy — but  because  the  situ- 
ation that  fate  has  made  for  us  will  weigh  on  you  and 
fetter  you?  I  know  my  daughter — her  delicacy;  her 
uneasy  susceptibility,  that  of  the  unfortunate;  her 
pride,  that  of  the  irreproachable.  It  would  be  a  wound 
for  her  that  would  make  happiness  give  way  to  unhap- 
piness,  for  she  could  not  bear  contempt." 

"If  that  is  in  human  nature,  it  is  not  in  mine;  I  give 
you  my  word." 

[  302  ] 


CONSCIENCE 

He  explained  how  he  meant  to  arrange  their  life,  and 
when  she  understood  that  she  was  to  live  with  them, 
she  clasped  her  hands  and  exclaimed : 

"Oh,  my  God,  who  hast  taken  my  son,  how  good 
thou  art  to  give  me  another!" 


[303] 


CHAPTER  XXXIX 

CONCESSION  TO  CONSCIENCE 

E  asked  nothing  better  than  to  be  a 
son  to  this  poor  woman ;  in  reaHty  he 
was  worth  much  more  than  this  un- 
fortunate boy,  effeminate  and  incap- 
able. What  did  this  maternal  hunger 
require  ?  A  son  to  love.  She  would 
find  one  in  her  son-in-law.  In  seeing 
her  daughter  happy,  how  could  she 
help  being  happy  herself  ? 

Evidently  they  would  be  happy,  the  mother  and 
daughter;  and  whatever  Phillis  might  think,  still  under 
the  influence  of  the  shameful  blow,  they  would  forget. 
They  would  owe  him  this. 

It  was  a  long  time  since  he  had  worked  with  so  much 
serenity  as  on  this  day;  and  when  in  the  evening  he 
went  to  bed,  uneasy  as  usual  about  the  night,  he  slept 
as  calmly  as  if  Phillis  were  resting  her  charming  head 
on  his  shoulder  and  he  breathed  the  perfume  of  it. 

Decidedly,  to  make  others  happy  was  the  best  thing 
in  the  world,  and  as  long  as  one  could  have  this  satis- 
faction there  was  no  fear  of  being  unhappy.  To  create 
an  atmosphere  of  happiness  for  others  is  to  profit  by  it 
at  the  same  time. 
He  waited  for  Phillis  impatiently,  for  she  would  bring 
[  304  ] 


CONSCIENCE 

him  an  echo  of  her  mother's  joy,  and  it  was  a  recom- 
pense that  she  owed  him. 

She  arrived  happy,  smiling,  penetrated  with  tender- 
ness; but  he  observed  that  she  was  keeping  something 
from  him,  something  that  embarrassed  her,  and  yet  she 
would  not  tell  him  what  it  was. 

He  was  not  disposed  to  admit  that  she  could  conceal 
anything  from  him,  and  he  questioned  her. 

''What  are  you  keeping  from  me?" 

"How  can  you  suppose  that  I  should  keep  anything 
from  you?" 

"Well,  what  is  the  matter?  You  know,  do  you  not, 
that  I  read  all  your  thoughts  in  your  eyes?  Very  well 
your  eyes  speak  when  your  lips  are  silent." 

"I  have  a  request  to  make  of  you,  a  prayer." 

"Why  do  you  not  tell  me?" 

"Because  I  do  not  dare." 

"Yet  it  does  not  seem  to  me  that  I  show  a  dispo- 
sition to  make  you  believe  that  I  could  refuse  you 
anything." 

"  It  is  just  that  which  is  the  cause  of  my  embarrass- 
ment and  reserve;  I  fear  to  pain  you  at  the  moment 
when  I  would  show  you  all  the  gratitude  and  love  in 
my  heart." 

"If  you  are  going  to  give  me  pain,  it  is  better  not  to 
make  me  wait." 

She  hesitated ;  then,  before  an  impatient  gesture,  she 
decided  to  speak. 

"I  wish  to  ask  you  how  you  mean  to  be  married?" 

He  looked  at  her  in  surprise. 

"But,  like  every  one  else!" 
20  [  305  ] 


HECTOR  MALOT 

"Every  one?"  she  asked,  persistently. 

"Is  there  any  other  way  of  being  married?" 

"Yes." 

"I  do  not  in  the  least  understand  this  manner  of  ask- 
ing conundrums;  if  you  are  alluding  to  a  fashionable 
custom  of  which  I  know  nothing,  say  so  frankly.  That 
will  not  wound  me,  since  I  am  the  first  to  declare  that 
I  know  nothing  of  it.    What  do  you  wish?" 

She  felt  his  irritation  increase,  and  yet  she  could  not 
decide  to  say  w^hat  she  wished. 

"I  have  begun  badly,"  she  said.  "I  should  have 
told  you  at  first  that  you  will  always  find  in  me  a  wife 
who  will  respect  your  ideas  and  beliefs,  who  will  never 
permit  herself  to  judge  you,  and  still  less  to  seek  to 
contend  with  them  or  to  modify  them.  That  you  feel, 
do  you  not,  is  neither  a  part  of  my  nature  nor  of  my 
love?" 

"Conclude!"  he  said  impatiently. 

"I  think,  then,"  she  said  with  timid  hesitation,  "that 
you  will  not  say  that  I  fail  in  respect  to  your  ideas  in 
asking  that  our  marriage  take  place  in  church." 

"But  that  was  my  intention." 

"Truly!"  she  exclaimed.  "O  dearest!  And  I 
feared  to  offend  you!" 

"Why  should  you  think  it  would  offiend  me?"  he 
asked,  smiling. 

"You  consent  to  go  to  confession?" 

Instantly  the  smile  in  his  eyes  and  on  his  lips  was 
replaced  by  a  gleam  of  fury. 

"And  why  should  I  not  go  to  confession?"  he  de- 
manded. 

[306] 


CONSCIENCE 


But- 


"Do  you  suppose  that  I  can  be  afraid  to  confess? 
Why  do  you  suppose  that ?    Tell  me  why?" 

He  looked  at  her  with  eyes  that  pierced  to  her  heart, 
as  if  they  would  read  her  inmost  thoughts. 

Stupefied  by  this  access  of  fury,  which  burst  forth 
without  any  warning,  since  he  had  smilingly  replied 
to  her  request  for  a  religious  marriage,  she  could  find 
nothing  to  say,  not  understanding  how  the  simple  word 
"confess"  could  so  exasperate  him.  And  yet  she  could 
not  deceive  herself:  is  was  indeed  this  word  and  no 
other  that  put  him  in  this  state. 

He  continued  to  look  at  her,  and  wishing  to  explain 
herself,  she  said:  "I  supposed  only  one  thing,  and  that 
is  that  I  might  offend  you  by  asking  you  to  do  what  is 
contrary  to  your  beliefs." 

The  mad  anger  that  carried  him  away  so  stupidly 
began  to  lose  its  first  violence;  another  word  added  to 
what  had  already  escaped  him  would  be  an  avowal. 

" Do  not  let  us  talk  of  it  any  more,"  he  said.  "Above 
all,  do  not  let  us  think  of  it." 

"Permit  me  to  say  one  word,"  she  replied.  "Had  I 
been  situated  like  other  people  I  would  have  asked 
nothing;  my  will  is  yours.  But  for  you,  for  your  future 
and  your  honor,  you  should  not  appear  to  marry  in  se- 
cret, as  if  ashamed,  with  a  pariah." 

"Be  easy.  I  feel  as  you  do,  more  than  you,  the 
necessity  of  consecrated  ceremonies  for  us." 

She  understood  that  on  this  path  he  would  go  farther 
than  she. 

To  destroy  the  impression  of  this  unfortunate  word, 
[307] 


HECTOR  MALOT 

he  proposed  that  they  should  visit  the  apartment  he 
had  engaged  the  previous  day. 

For  the  first  time  they  walked  together  boldly,  with 
heads  held  high,  side  by  side  in  the  streets  of  Paris, 
without  fear  of  meeting  others.  How  proud  she  was! 
Her  husband!  It  was  on  her  husband's  arm  that  she 
leaned!  When  they  crossed  the  Tuileries  she  was  al- 
most surprised  that  people  did  not  turn  to  see  them 
pass. 

In  her  present  state  of  mind  she  could  not  but  find 
the  house  he  chose  admirable;  the  street  was  admirable, 
the  house  was  admirable,  the  apartment  was  admirable. 

As  it  contained  three  bedrooms  opening  on  a  terrace, 
where  he  would  keep  the  animals  for  his  experiments, 
Saniel  wished  to  have  her  decide  which  one  she  would 
choose;  as  she  would  share  it  with  him  she  wished  to 
take  the  best,  but  he  would  not  accept  this  arrangement. 

"I  want  you  to  choose  between  the  two  little  ones," 
he  said.  "The  largest  and  best  must  be  reserved  for 
your  mother,  who,  not  being  able  to  go  out,  needs  more 
space,  air,  and  light  than  we  do." 

She  was  transported  with  his  kindness,  delicacy,  and 
generosity.  Never  would  she  be  able  to  love  him 
enough  to  raise  herself  up  to  him. 

Fortunately  the  principal  rooms,  the  parlor  and  the 
office,  were  about  the  same  size  as  those  in  the  Rue 
Louis-le- Grand,  so  there  need  be  but  little  change  in 
furnishing;  and  they  would  bring  their  furniture  from 
the  Rue  des  Moines. 

This  feminine  talk,  interrupted  by  passionate  excla- 
mations and  glances,  charmed  Saniel,  who  had  for- 

[308] 


CONSCIENCE 

gotten  the  incident  of  the  confession  and  his  anger, 
thinking  only  of  Phillis,  seeing  only  her,  ravished  by  her 
gayety,  her  vivacity,  his  whole  being  stirred  by  the  ten- 
der caresses  of  her  beautiful  dark  eyes. 

How  could  he  not  be  happy  with  this  delicious 
woman  who  held  such  sway  over  him,  and  who  loved 
him  so  ardently?  For  him  a  single  danger  henceforth 
— sohtude.  She  would  preserve  him  from  it.  With  her 
gayety,  good  temper,  courage,  and  love,  she  would  not 
leave  him  to  his  thoughts;  work  would  do  the  rest. 

After  the  question  of  furniture  was  decided,  they 
settled  that  of  the  marriage  ceremony,  and  she  was  sur- 
prised to  find  that  his  ideas  were  the  same  as  hers. 

She  decided  upon  her  toilet,  a  silk  gown  as  simple  as 
possible,  and  she  would  make  it  herself,  as  she  made 
all  her  gowns.  And  then  they  discussed  the  witnesses. 
"We  have  no  friends,"  Phillis  said. 

"You  had  some  formerly;  your  father  had  friends 
and  comrades." 

"I  am  no  longer  the  daughter  of  my  father,  I  am 
the  sister  of  my  brother;  I  would  not  dare  to  ask  them 
to  witness  my  marriage." 

"It  is  just  because  you  are  the  sister  of  your  brother 
that  they  cannot  refuse  you ;  it  would  be  cruelty  added 
to  rudeness.  Cruelty  may  be  overlooked,  but  rudeness! 
Among  the  men  of  talent,  who  was  your  father's  best 
friend?" 

"Cintrat." 

"Is  he  not  a  bohemian,  a  drunkard?" 

"My  father  regarded  him  as  the  greatest  painter  of 
our  time,  the  most  original." 

[309] 


HECTOR  MALOT 

"It  is  not  a  question  of  talent,  but  of  name;  I  am 
sure  that  he  is  not  even  decorated.  Your  father  had 
other  friends,  more  successful,  more  commonplace,  if 
you  wish." 

"Glorient." 

"The  member  of  the  Institute?" 

"Casparis,  the  sculptor." 

"An  academician,  also;  that  is  what  we  want,  and 
both  are  archi-decore.  You  wUl  write  them,  and  tell 
them  who  I  am,  assistant  professor  of  the  school  of 
medicine,  and  doctor  of  the  hospitals.  I  promise  you 
they  will  accept.  I  will  ask  my  old  master  Carbonneau, 
president  of  the  academy  of  medicine;  and  Claudet, 
the  ancient  minister,  who,  in  his  quality  of  deputy  of 
my  department,  could  not  decline  any  more  than  the 
others.  And  that  will  give  us  decorated  witnesses, 
which  will  look  well  in  the  newspapers." 

It  was  not  only  in  the  newspapers  they  looked  well, 
but  also  in  the  church  of  Sainte-Marie  des  BatignoUes. 

"Glorient!  Casparis!  Carbonneau!  Claudet!  Art, 
science,  and  politics." 

But  the  beauty  and  charm  of  the  bride  were  not 
eclipsed  by  these  glorious  witnesses.  She  entered  on 
Glorient's  arm,  proud  in  her  modesty,  radiant  with 
grace. 

While  the  priest  celebrated  mass  at  the  altar,  out- 
side, before  the  door,  a  man  dressed  in  a  costume  of 
chestnut  velvet,  and  wearing  a  felt  hat,  walked  up  and 
down,  smoking  a  pipe.  It  was  the  Count  de  Brigard, 
whose  principles  forbade  him  to  enter  a  church  for 
either  a  wedding  or  a  funeral,  and  who  walked  up  and 

[310] 


CONSCIENCE 

down  on  the  sidewalk  with  his  disciples,  waiting  to  con- 
gratulate Saniel.  When  he  appeared  the  Count  rushed 
up  to  him,  and  taking  his  hand  pressed  it  warmly  on 
separating  him  from  his  wife,  and  saying: 

"It  is  good,  it  is  noble.  Circumstances  made  this 
marriage ;  without  them  it  would  not  have  taken  place. 
I  understand  and  I  excuse  it;  I  do  more,  I  applaud  it. 
My  dear  friend,  you  are  a  man." 

And  as  it  was  Wednesday,  in  the  evening  at  Crozat's, 
he  publicly  expressed  his  approbation,  which,  in  the 
conditions  in  which  it  had  been  offered,  did  not  satisfy 
his  conscience. 

"  Gentlemen,  we  have  assisted  to-day  at  a  grand  act 
of  reparation,  the  marriage  of  our  friend  Saniel  to  the 
sister  of  this  poor  boy,  victim  of  an  injustice  that  cries 
for  vengeance.  One  evening  in  this  same  room,  I  spoke 
lightly  of  Saniel,  some  of  you  remember,  perhaps,  in 
spite  of  the  time  that  has  passed.  I  wish  to  make  this 
public  reparation  to  him.  To-day  he  has  shown  him- 
self a  man  of  duty  and  of  conscience,  bravely  putting 
himself  above  social  weaknesses." 

"Is  it  not  a  social  weakness,"  asked  Glady,  "to  have 
chosen  as  witnesses  of  this  act  of  reparation  persons  who 
seem  to  have  been  selected  for  the  decorative  side  of 
their  official  positions?" 

"Profound  irony,  on  the  contrary!"  said  Brigard. 
"It  is  a  powerful  and  fruitful  lesson,  which  makes  even 
those  who  are  professional  defenders  concur  in  the  dem- 
olition of  the  prejudiced.    Saniel  is  a  man!" 


[311] 


CHAPTER  XL 

PHILLIS  IS   SURPRISED 

'he  Sunday  following  her  marriage,  Phil- 
lis  experienced  a  surprise  on  which 
she  reflected  a  long  time  without  find- 
ing a  satisfactory  explanation. 

As  she  was  dressing,  Saniel  entered 
her  room. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  to-day  ?" 
he  asked. 
"That  which  I  do  every  day." 
"You  are  not  going  to  mass?" 
She  looked  at  him  astonished,  not  being  able  to  con- 
trol her  surprise,  and  as  usual,  when  she  appeared  to 
wish  to  read  his  thoughts,  he  showed  temper. 
"In  what  way  is  my  question  extraordinary?" 
"Mass  is  not  exactly  the  usual  subject    of  your 
thoughts,  it  seems  to  me." 

"  It  may  become  so,  especially  when  I  think  of  others, 
as  is  the  case  just  now.    Do  you  not  often  go  to  mass  ?  " 
"When  I  can." 

"Very  well,  you  can  go  to-day  if  you  wish.  Listen 
to  what  I  have  to  say  to  you.  I  have  not  forgotten  the 
promise  you  made  to  respect  my  ideas  and  beliefs.  I 
wish  to  make  you  the  same;  it  is  very  simple." 

"All  that  is  good  and  generous  seems  simple  to  you." 
[312] 


CONSCIENCE 

"WeU?" 

"I  will  go  at  once." 

"Now?  At  once?  It  is  not  eight  o'clock.  Go  to 
high  mass,  it  is  more  fashionable." 

Fashionable!  What  a  strange  word  in  his  mouth! 
It  was  not  out  of  respect  to  fashion  that  she  went  to 
church,  but  because  there  was  in  her  a  depth  of  relig- 
ious sentiment  and  of  piety,  a  little  vague  perhaps, 
which  Florentin's  misfortunes  had  revived. 

"I  will  go  to  high  mass,"  she  said,  without  letting  it 
appear  that  this  word  had  suggested  anything  to  her, 
and  continuing  her  dressing. 

"Are  you  going  to  wear  this  frock?"  he  asked,  point- 
ing to  one  that  lay  on  a  chair. 

"Yes;  at  least  if  it  does  not  displease  you." 

"I  find  it  rather  simple." 

In  effect  it  was  of  extreme  simplicity,  made  of  some 
cheap  stuff,  its  only  charm  being  an  originality  that 
Phillis  gave  it  on  making  it  herself. 

"Do  not  forget,"  he  continued,  "that  Saint-Fran- 
jois-Xavier  is  not  a  church  for  working  people;  when 
a  woman  is  as  charming  as  you  are  she  is  always  no- 
ticed.   People  will  ask  who  you  are." 

"You  are  right;  I  will  wear  the  gown  I  wore  at  the 
distribution  of  the  prizes." 

"That  is  it;  and  your  bonnet,  will  you  not,  instead 
of  the  round  hat?  The  first  impression  should  be  the 
best." 

This  mixture  of  religious  and  worldly  things  was  sur- 
prising in  him.  Had  she  not  understood  him,  then, 
until  now  ?    After  all,  perhaps  it  was  only  an  exception. 

[313] 


HECTOR  MALOT 

But  these  exactions  regarding  her  dress  were  repeated. 

Although  before  her  marriage  PhiUis  had  only  crossed 
Saniel's  path,  she  knew  him  well  enough  to  know  that 
he  was  entirely  given  up  to  work,  without  thought  of 
anything  else,  and  she  believed  that  after  marriage  he 
would  continue  to  work  in  the  same  way,  not  caring  for 
amusements  or  society.  She  was  correct  about  his 
work,  but  not  so  regarding  society.  A  short  time  after 
their  marriage  the  minister  Claudet  was  cured  oppor- 
tunely of  an  attack  of  facial  neuralgia  by  Saniel,  for 
whom  he  conceived  a  great  friendship.  He  invited 
Saniel  and  his  wife  to  all  his  reunions  and  fetes,  and 
Saniel  accepted  all  his  invitations. 

At  first  her  wedding  gown  answered  very  well,  but  it 
would  not  do  always.  It  had  to  be  trimmed,  modified, 
three  or  four  toilets  made  of  one  gown;  but,  however 
ingenious  Phillis  might  be  in  arranging  several  yards  of 
tulle  or  gauze,  she  could  not  make  combinations  indefi- 
nitely. 

And  besides,  they  did  not  please  Saniel;  they  were 
too  simple.  He  liked  lace,  beads,  flowers,  something 
shining  and  glittering,  such  as  he  saw  other  women 
wear. 

How  could  she  please  him  with  the  small  resources 
at  her  disposal  ?  In  her  household  expenses  she  was 
as  economical  as  possible;  Joseph  was  dismissed,  and 
replaced  by  a  maid  who  did  all  the  work;  the  table  was 
extremely  simple.  But  these  little  economies,  saved 
on  one  side,  were  quickly  spent  on  the  other  in  toilets 
and  carriages. 

When  she  expressed  a  wish  to  work,  to  paint  menus, 
[314] 


CONSCIENCE 

he  would  not  consent,  and  when  she  insisted  he  became 
angry. 

He  only  permitted  her  to  paint  pictures.  As  she  had 
formerly  painted  for  amusement  in  her  father's  studio, 
she  might  do  so  now.  If  trade  were  a  disgrace,  art 
might  be  honorable.  If  she  had  talent  he  would  be 
glad  of  it ;  and  if  she  should  sell  her  pictures  it  would  be 
original  enough  to  cause  her  to  be  talked  about. 

The  salon  was  partly  transformed  into  a  studio,  and 
Phillis  painted  several  little  pictures,  which,  without 
having  any  pretensions  to  great  art,  were  pleasing  and 
painted  with  a  certain  dash.  Glorient  admired  them, 
and  made  a  picture- dealer  buy  two  of  them  and  order 
others,  at  a  small  price  it  is  true,  but  it  was  much  more 
than  she  expected. 

With  the  courage  and  constancy  that  women  put  into 
work  that  pleases  them,  she  would  willingly  have 
painted  from  morning  till  night;  but  the  connections 
that  Saniel  had  made  did  not  leave  her  this  liberty. 
Through  Claudet  they  made  many  acquaintances  and 
accepted  invitations  that  placed  her  under  social  obli- 
gations, so  that  almost  every  day  she  had  a  visit  to  pay, 
a  funeral  or  a  marriage  to  attend,  besides  an  occasional 
charity  fair,  and  her  own  day  at  home,  when  she  listened 
for  three  hours  to  feminine  gossip  of  no  interest  to  her. 

As  for  him,  what  pleasure  could  he  take  in  dressing 
after  a  hard  day's  work  to  go  to  a  reception  ?  He,  son 
of  a  peasant,  and  a  peasant  himself  in  so  many  ways, 
who  formerly  understood  nothing  of  fashionable  life 
and  felt  only  contempt  for  it,  finding  it  as  dull  as  it  was 
ridiculous. 

[315] 


HECTOR  MALOT 

She  tried  to  find  a  cause  for  this  change,  and  when 
lightly,  in  a  roundabout  way,  she  brought  him  to  ex- 
plain himself,  she  could  only  draw  one  answer  from 
him,  which  was  no  answer  to  her: 

"We  must  be  of  the  world." 

Why  did  he  care  so  much  about  society?  Was  it 
because  she  was  the  sister  of  a  criminal  that  he  wished 
to  take  her  everywhere  and  make  people  receive  her? 
She  understood  this  up  to  a  certain  point,  although  the 
part  he  made  her  play  was  the  most  cruel  that  he  could 
give  her,  and  entirely  contrary  to  what  she  would  have 
chosen  if  she  had  been  free. 

But  this  was  all  there  was  in  his  desire  to  be  of  the 
world.  Because  he  had  married  her  he  was  not  the 
brother  of  a  criminal,  and  on  close  observation  it  might 
be  seen  that  all  he  desired  of  these  persons  in  high  places 
whom  he  sought  was  their  consideration,  a  part  of  their 
importance  and  honor.  But  he  did  not  need  this;  he 
was  some  one  by  himself.  The  position  that  he  had 
made  was  worthy  of  his  merit.  His  name  was  honored. 
His  future  was  envied. 

And  yet,  as  if  he  did  not  realize  this,  he  sought  small 
satisfactions,  unworthy  of  a  serious  ambition.  One 
evening  she  was  very  much  surprised  when  he  told  her 
that  the  decoration  of  a  Spanish  republic  was  offered  to 
him,  and  although  she  had  formed  a  habit  of  watching 
over  her  words  she  could  not  help  exclaiming: 

"What  will  you  do  with  that?" 

"I  could  not  refuse  it." 

Not  only  had  he  not  refused  it,  but  he  had  accepted 
others,  blue,  green,  yellow,  and  tricolored;    he  wore 

[316] 


CONSCIENCE 

them  in  his  buttonhole,  around  his  neck,  and  on  his 
breast.  What  good  could  those  decorations  do  that 
belittled  him?  And  how  could  a  man  of  his  merit 
hasten  to  obtain  the  Legion  of  Honor  before  it  fell  to 
him  naturally  ? 

All  this  was  astonishing,  mysterious,  and  silly,  and 
her  mind  dwelt  upon  it  when  she  was  alone  before  her 
easel;  while  near  her  in  his  laboratory,  he  continued 
his  experiments,  or  wrote  an  article  in  his  ofl6ce  for  the 
Review. 

But  it  was  not  without  a  struggle  that  she  permitted 
herself  to  judge  him  in  this  way.  One  does  not  judge 
those  whom  one  loves,  and  she  loved  him.  Was  it  not 
failing  in  respect  to  her  love  that  she  did  not  admire 
him  in  every  way?  When  these  ideas  oppressed  her 
she  left  her  easel  and  went  to  him.  Close  to  him  they 
disappeared.  At  first,  in  order  not  to  disturb  him,  she 
entered  on  tiptoe,  walking  softly  and  leaning  over  his 
shoulder,  embraced  him  before  he  saw  or  heard  her; 
but  he  betrayed  such  horror,  such  fear,  that  she  gave 
up  this  way  of  greeting  him. 

She  continued  to  go  to  his  room,  but  in  a  different 
way.     Instead  of   surprising  him  she  announced  her 
presence  by  rattling  the  handle  of  the  door,  and  walk- 
ing noisily,  and  instead  of  receiving  her  with  uneasy 
manner  he  welcomed  her  joyfully. 
"You  have  finished  painting?" 
"I  have  come  to  see  you  for  a  little  while." 
"Very  well,  stay  with  me,  do  not  go  away  immedi- 
ately; I  am  never  so  happy,  I  never  work  so  well,  as 
when  I  have  you  near  me." 

[317I 


HECTOR  MALOT 

She  felt  that  this  was  true.  When  she  was  with  him, 
whether  she  spoke  or  not,  her  presence  made  him 
happy. 

And  still  she  must  appear  not  to  look  at  him  too  at- 
tentively, as  if  with  the  manifest  intention  of  studying 
him ;  for  she  did  this  during  the  first  days  of  their  mar- 
riage, and  angered  him  so  much  that  he  exclaimed : 

"Why  do  you  examine  me  thus?  What  do  you  look 
for  in  me?" 

She  learned  to  watch  herself  carefully,  and  when 
with  him  to  preserve  a  discreet  attitude  that  should  not 
offend  him.  No  curious  looks,  and  no  questions.  But 
this  was  not  always  easy,  so  she  asked  leave  to  assist 
him  in  his  work,  and  sometimes  drew  in  larger  size  the 
designs  that  he  made  for  his  microscopical  studies.  In 
this  way  the  time  passed  rapidly.  If  he  were  but  will- 
ing to  pass  the  evening  hours  in  this  sweet  intimacy, 
without  a  word  about  going  out,  how  happy  she  would 
be !    But  he  never  forgot  the  hour. 

"Allons,^'  he  said,  interrupting  himself,  "we  must 
go." 

She  had  never  dared  to  ask  the  true  reason  for  this 
"must." 


[318] 


CHAPTER  XLI 


A  TROUBLED  SOUL 


F  she  dared  not  frankly  ask  him  this 
question :  Why  must  we  go  out  ?  any 
more  than  the  others:  Why  is  it  proper 
that  I  should  go  to  mass  to  be  seen? 
Why  should  I  wear  gowns  that  ruin 
us?  Why  do  you  accept  decorations 
that  are  valueless  in  your  eyes  ?  Why 
do  you  seek  the  society  of  men  who 
have  no  merit  but  what  they  derive  from  their  official 
position  or  from  their  fortune  ?  Why  do  we  take  upon 
ourselves  social  duties  that  weary  both  of  us,  instead  of 
remaining  together  in  a  tender  and  intelligent  intimacy 
that  is  sweet  to  us  both  ?  she  could  not  ask  herself. 

They  all  appertained  to  this  order  of  ideas,  that  she, 
without  doubt,  found  explained  them:  disposition  of 
character;  the  exactions  of  an  ambition  in  haste  to 
realize  its  desires;  susceptibility  or  overshadowing 
pride ;  but  there  were  others  founded  on  observation  or 
memory,  having  no  connection  with  those,  or  so  it 
seemed  to  her. 

She  began  to  know  her  husband  the  day  following 
their  marriage,  having  believed  that  he  was  always 
such  as  he  revealed  himself  to  her;  but  this  was  not  the 
case,  and  the  man  she  had  loved  was  so  unlike  the  man 

[319] 


HECTOR  MALOT 

whose  wife  she  had  become,  that  it  might  almost  be 
thought  there  were  two. 

To  tell  the  truth,  it  was  not  marriage  that  made  the 
change  in  his  temper  that  distressed  her;  but  it  was  not 
less  characteristic  by  that,  that  it  dated  back  to  a  period 
anterior  to  this  marriage. 

She  remembered  the  commencement  with  a  clear- 
ness that  left  no  place  for  doubt  or  hesitation;  it  was  at 
the  time  when  pursued  by  creditors  he  entered  into  re- 
lations with  Caffie.  For  the  first  time  he,  always  so 
strong  that  she  believed  him  above  weakness,  had  had 
a  moment  of  discouragement  on  announcing  that  he 
would  probably  be  obliged  to  leave  Paris;  but  this 
depression  had  neither  the  anger  nor  weakness  that  he 
had  since  shown.  It  was  the  natural  sadness  of  a  man 
who  saw  his  future  destroyed,  nothing  more.  The  only 
surprise  that  she  then  felt  was  caused  by  the  idea  of 
strangling  Cafhe  and  taking  enough  money  from  his 
safe  to  clear  himself  from  debt,  and  also  because  he 
said — as  a  consequence  of  this  act — speaking  of  the 
remorse  of  an  intelligent  man,  that  his  conscience 
would  not  reproach  him,  since  for  him  conscience  did 
not  exist.  But  this  was  evidently  a  simple  philosoph- 
ical theory,  not  a  trait  of  character;  a  jest  or  an  argu- 
ment for  the  sake  of  discussion. 

Relieved  from  his  creditors  with  the  money  won  at 
Monaco,  he  returned  to  his  usual  calm,  working  harder 
than  ever,  passing  his  concours,  and  when  it  seemed 
excusable  that  he  might  be  nervous,  violent,  unjust, 
he  remained  the  man  that  he  had  been  ever  since  she 
knew  him.    Then,  all  at  once,  a  short  time  before  Flor- 

[320] 


CONSCIENCE 

entin  went  to  the  assizes,  occurred  these  strange  explo- 
sions of  temper,  spasms  of  anger,  and  restlessness  that 
she  could  not  explain,  manifesting  themselves  exactly  at 
the  time  when,  by  Madame  Dammauville's  interven- 
tion, she  hoped  Florentin  would  be  saved.  She  had  not 
forgotten  the  furious  anger,  that  was  inexplicable  and 
unjustifiable,  with  which  he  refused  her  request  to  see 
Madame  Dammauville.  He  had  thrust  her  away, 
wishing  to  break  with  her,  and  until  she  was  a  witness 
of  this  scene  she  never  imagined  that  any  one  could  put 
such  violence  into  exasperation.  Then  to  this  scene 
succeeded  another,  totally  opposed,  which  had  not  less 
impressed  her,  when,  at  their  little  dinner  by  the  fire, 
he  showed  such  profound  desolation  on  telling  her  to 
keep  the  memory  of  this  evening  when  she  should  judge 
him,  and  announcing  to  her,  in  a  prophetic  sort  of  way, 
that  the  hour  would  come  when  she  would  know  him 
whom  she  loved. 

And  now  this  hour,  the  thought  of  which  she  had 
thrown  far  from  her,  had  sounded ;  she  sought  to  com- 
bine the  elements  of  this  judgment  which  then  ap- 
peared criminal  to  her,  and  now  forced  itself  upon  her, 
whatever  she  might  do  to  repel  it. 

How  many  times  this  memory  returned  to  her!  It 
could  almost  be  said  that  it  had  never  left  her,  sweet 
and  sad  at  the  same  time,  less  sweet  and  more  sad,  ac- 
cording as  new  subjects  for  uneasiness  were  added  to 
the  others,  in  deepening  the  mysterious  and  troublous 
impression  that  it  left  with  her. 

To  judge  him!  Why  did  he  wish  that  she  should 
judge  him  ?    And  on  what  ? 

21  [321] 


HECTOR  MALOT 

And  yet  with  him  it  was  not  an  insignificant  word, 
but  the  evidence  of  a  particular  state  of  conscience, 
which  many  times  since  asserted  itself.  Was  it  not,  in 
effect,  to  this  order  of  ideas  that  the  cry  belonged  that 
escaped  him  in  the  night  when,  waking  suddenly,  he 
asked  with  emotion,  with  fright:  "What  have  I  said?" 
And  also  to  the  same  appertained  the  anger  that  car- 
ried him  away  when,  h  propos  of  their  religious  mar- 
riage, she  spoke  of  confession:  "Why  do  you  think 
that  I  should  be  afraid  to  go  to  confession?" 

How  could  he  imagine  that  she  could  admit  the  idea 
of  fear  in  connection  with  him?  The  idea  never  oc- 
curred to  her  mind  until  this  moment;  and  if  now  the 
memory  of  her  astonishment  came  to  her,  it  was  because 
of  other  little  things  added  to  those  of  the  past  that 
evoked  it. 

How  numerous  and  significant  they  were,  these 
things:  his  constant  uneasiness  on  seeing  himself 
watched  by  her;  his  invitation  when  he  thought  she 
was  going  to  question  him;  his  access  of  passion  when, 
through  heedlessness  or  forgetfulness,  or  simply  by 
chance,  she  asked  him  a  question  on  certain  subjects, 
and  immediately  the  tenderness  that  followed,  so  sudden 
that  they  appeared  rather  planned  in  view  of  a  deter- 
mined end  than  natural  or  spontaneous. 

It  was  a  long  time  before  she  admitted  the  calcula- 
tion under  the  sweet  words  that  made  her  so  happy; 
but  in  the  end  it  was  well  that  she  should  open  her 
eyes  to  the  evidence,  and  see  that  they  were  with  him 
the  consequences  of  the  same  and  constant  preoccupa- 
tion, that  of  not  committing  himself. 

[322] 


CONSCIENCE 

It  was  only  one  step  from  this  to  ask  him  what  he  did 
not  wish  to  yield  up. 

Yet,  as  short  as  it  was,  she  resisted  for  a  long  time 
the  curiosity  that  possessed  her.  It  was  her  duty  as  a 
loving  and  devoted  wife  not  to  seek  beyond  what  he 
showed  her,  and  this  duty  was  in  perfect  accord  with 
the  dispositions  of  her  love;  but  the  power  of  things 
seen  carried  her  beyond  will  and  reason.  She  could 
not  apply  her  mind  to  search  for  that  which  agonized 
her,  and  she  could  not  close  her  eyes  and  ears  to  what 
she  saw  and  heard. 

And  what  struck  them  were  the  same  observations, 
turning  always  in  the  same  circle,  applied  to  the  same 
subjects  and  persons: 

Caffi^'s  name  irritated  him;  Madame  Dammauville's 
angered  him;  Florentin's  made  him  positively  un- 
happy. 

As  for  the  two  former,  she  might  have  prevented  the 
pronunciation  of  them  when  she  saw  the  effect  they 
infallibly  produced  on  him. 

But  she  could  not  prevent  the  utterance  of  Florentin's 
name,  even  had  she  wished  it.  How  could  she  tell  her 
mother  never  to  speak  the  name  of  him  who  was  con- 
stantly in  their  thoughts? 

In  spite  of  Saniel's  efforts  and  solicitations,  supported 
by  Nougar^de's,  Florentin  had  embarked  for  New 
Caledonia,  whence  he  wrote  as  often  as  he  could.  His 
letters  related  all  his  sufferings  in  the  terrible  galleys, 
where  he  was  confined  during  the  voyage,  and  since  his 
arrival  they  were  a  series  of  long  complaints,  continued 
from  one  to  the  other,  like  a  story  without  end,  turning 

[  323  ] 


HECTOR  MALOT 

always  on  the  same  subject,  his  physical  sufferings,  his 
humiliation,  his  discouragement,  and  his  disgust  in  the 
midst  of  the  unfortunates  whose  companion  he  was. 

The  arrival  of  these  letters  filled  the  mother  and  sis- 
ter with  anguish  that  lasted  for  several  days;  and  this 
anguish,  that  neither  of  them  could  dissimulate,  an- 
gered Saniel. 

"What  would  you  do  if  he  were  dead?"  he  asked 
Phillis. 

"Would  it  not  be  better  for  him?" 

"But  he  will  return." 

"  In  what  condition  ?  " 

"Are  we  the  masters  of  fate?" 

"We  weep,  we  do  not  complain." 

But  he  complained  of  the  weeping  faces  that  sur- 
rounded him,  the  tears  they  concealed  from  him,  the 
sighs  they  stifled.  Ordinarily  he  was  tender  and  affec- 
tionate to  his  mother-in-law,  with  attention  and  defer- 
ence which  in  some  ways  seemed  affected,  as  if  he  were 
so  by  will  rather  than  by  natural  sentiment;  but  at 
these  times  he  forgot  this  tenderness,  and  treated  her 
with  hardness  so  unjust,  that  more  than  once  Madame 
Cormier  spoke  of  it  to  her  daughter. 

"How  can  your  husband,  who  is  so  good  to  me,  be 
so  merciless  regarding  Florentin  ?  One  would  say  that 
our  sadness  produces  on  him  the  effect  of  a  reproach 
that  we  would  address  to  him." 

One  day  when  things  had  gone  farther  than  usual, 
she  had  the  courage  to  speak  to  him  plainly:  "Forgive 
me  for  burdening  you  with  the  weariness  of  our  dis- 
grace," she  said  to  him.    "When  I  complain  of  every- 

[324] 


CONSCIENCE 

thing,  of  men  and  things,  you  should  remember  that 
you  are  the  exception,  you  who  have  done  everything  to 
save  him." 

But  these  few  words  which  she  beHeved  would  calm 
the  irritation  of  her  son-in-law^  had  on  the  contrary 
exasperated  him;  he  left  her,  furious. 

"I  do  not  understand  your  husband  at  all,"  she  said 
to  her  daughter.  "Will  you  not  explain  to  me  what 
the  matter  is  with  him?" 

How  could  she  give  her  mother  the  explanation  that 
she  could  not  give  herself  ?  Having  reached  an  unfath- 
omable abyss,  she  dared  not  even  lean  over  to  look 
into  its  depths;  and  instead  of  going  on  in  the  path 
where  she  was  pledged  in  spite  of  herself,  she  made 
every  effort  to  return,  or  at  least  to  stop. 

What  good  would  it  do  to  find  out  why  he  was  so 
peculiar,  and  what  it  was  that  he  took  so  much  pains 
to  conceal?  This  could  only  be  idle  curiosity  on  her 
part,  for  which  she  would  be  punished  sooner  or  later. 

Turning  these  thoughts  over  continually  in  her  mind 
she  lost  her  gayety,  her  power  to  resist  blows  of  fate, 
such  as  the  small  trials  of  life,  which  formerly  made 
her  courageous;  her  vigorous  elasticity  sunk  under  the 
heavy  weight  with  which  it  was  charged,  and  her  smil- 
ing eyes  now  more  often  expressed  anxiety  than  happi- 
ness and  confidence. 

In  spite  of  her  watchfulness  over  herself  she  was  not 
able  to  hide  the  change  from  Saniel,  for  it  manifested 
itself  in  everything — in  her  face  formerly  so  open,  but 
which  now  bore  the  imprint  of  a  secret  sadness;  in  her 
concentrated  manner,  in  her  silence  and  abstraction. 

[  325  ] 


HECTOR  MALOT 

What  was  the  matter  with  her?  He  questioned  her, 
and  she  replied  with  the  prudence  that  she  used  in  all 
her  conversation  with  him.  He  examined  her  med- 
ically, but  found  nothing  to  indicate  a  sickly  condition 
which  would  justify  the  change  in  her. 

If  she  did  not  wish  to  answer  his  questions,  and  he 
had  the  proof  that  she  did  not  wish  to ;  if,  on  the  other 
hand,  she  was  not  ill,  and  he  was  convinced  that  she 
was  not — there  must  be  something  serious  the  matter 
to  make  the  woman  whom  but  lately  he  read  so  easily 
become  an  enigma  that  made  him  uneasy. 

And  this  thing — if  it  were  that  whose  crushing  weight 
he  himself  carried  on  his  bent  shoulders?  She  divined, 
she  understood,  if  not  all,  at  least  a  part  of  the  truth. 

What  an  extraordinary  situation  was  hers,  and  one 
which  might  truly  destroy  her  reason. 

Nothing  to  fear  from  others,  everything  from  him- 
self. Justice,  law,  the  world — on  all  sides  he  was  let 
alone ;  nothing  was  asked  of  him ;  that  which  was  owed 
was  paid;  but  he  by  a  sickly  aberration  was  going  to 
awake  the  dead  who  slept  in  their  tomb,  from  which  no 
one  thought  of  taking  them,  and  to  make  spectres  of 
them  which  he  alone  saw  and  heard. 

And  he  believed  himself  strong.  Fool  that  he  was, 
and  still  more  foolish  to  have  taken  such  a  charge  when 
by  the  exercise  of  his  will  he  did  not  place  himself  in 
a  condition  to  carry  it!  To  will!  But  he  had  not 
learned  how  to  will. 


[326] 


CHAPTER  XLII 

THE  POWER  OF  HYPNOTISM 

^HE  relative  calm  that  Saniel  had  felt 
since  his  marriage  he  owed  to  Phillis; 
to  the  strength,  the  confidence,  the 
peace  that  he  drew  from  her.  Phillis 
without  strength,  without  confidence, 
without  interior  peace,  such  as  she  was 
now,  could  not  give  him  what  she  no 
longer  had  herself,  and  he  returned  to 
the  distracted  condition  that  preceded  his  marriage,  and 
felt  the  same  anguish,  the  same  agitation,  the  same 
madness.  The  beautiful  relations,  worldly  considera- 
tion, success,  decorations,  honors,  were  good  for  others; 
but  for  his  happiness  he  required  the  tranquillity  and 
serenity  of  his  wife,  and  her  good  moral  health  which 
passed  into  him  when  she  slept  on  his  shoulder.  In  that 
case  there  were  no  sudden  awakenings,  no  sleeplessness; 
at  the  sound  of  her  gentle  respiration  he  was  reassured, 
and  the  spectres  remained  in  their  tomb. 

But  now  that  this  respiration  was  agitated,  and  he  no 
longer  felt  in  her  this  tranquillity  and  serenity,  he  was 
no  longer  calm ;  she  was  weak  and  uneasy,  and  she  com- 
municated her  fever  to  him,  not  her  sleep. 
' '  You  do  not  sleep.    Why  do  you  not  sleep  ?  " 
"And  you?" 

[327] 


HECTOR  MALOT 

He  must  know. 

He  persisted  in  his  questions,  but  she  was  always 
on  her  guard,  so  that  he  was  unable  to  draw  anything 
from  her,  checked  as  he  was  by  the  fear  of  betraying 
himself,  which  seemed  easy  at  the  point  he  believed  she 
had  reached.  An  awkward  word,  too  much  persist- 
ence, would  let  a  flood  of  light  into  her  mind. 

He  also  affected  to  speak  as  a  physician  when  ques- 
tioning her,  and  to  look  for  medical  explanations  of  her 
condition. 

"If  you  do  not  sleep  it  is  because  you  suffer.  What 
is  this  suffering  ?    From  what  does  it  proceed  ? ' ' 

Having  no  reasons  to  give  to  justify  it,  since  she  did 
not  even  dare  to  speak  of  her  brother,  she  denied  it  ob- 
stinately. 

"But  nothing  is  the  matter  with  me,  I  assure  you," 
she  repeated .     ' '  What  do  you  think  is  the  matter  ? ' ' 

"That  is  what  I  ask  you." 

"Then  I  ask  you:  What  do  you  think  I  conceal 
from  you?" 

He  could  not  say  that  he  suspected  her  of  concealing 
anything  from  him. 

"  You  do  not  watch  yourself  properly." 

"-I  can  do  nothing." 

"  I  will  force  you  to  watch  yourself  and  to  speak." 

"How?" 

"By  putting  you  to  sleep." 

The  threat  was  so  terrible  that  she  was  beside  herself. 

"Do  not  do  that!"  she  cried. 

They  looked  at  each  other  for  a  few  moments  in 
silence,  both  equally  frightened,  she  at  the  threat,  he  at 

L328I 


CONSCIENCE 

what  he  would  learn  from  her.  But  to  show  this  fright 
was  on  his  side  to  let  loose  another  proof  even  more 
grave. 

"Why  should  I  not  seek  to  discover  in  every  way  the 
cause  of  this  uneasiness  which  escapes  my  examination 
as  well  as  yours  ?  For  that  somnambulism  ofifers  us  an 
excellent  way." 

"But  since  I  am  not  ill,  what  more  could  I  tell  you 
when  I  am  asleep  than  when  I  am  awake  ?" 

"We  shall  see." 

"It  is  an  experiment  that  I  ask  you  not  to  attempt. 
Would  you  try  a  poison  on  me  ?  " 

"  Somnambulism  is  not  a  poison." 

"Who  knows?" 

"Those  who  have  made  use  of  it." 

"  But  you  have  not." 

"Still  I  know  enough  to  know  that  you  will  run  no 
danger  in  my  hands." 

She  beheved  that  he  opened  a  door  of  escape  to  her. 

"Never  mind,  I  am  too  much  afraid.  If  you  ever 
want  to  make  me  talk  in  a  state  of  forced  somnambu- 
lism, ask  one  of  your  conlrhes  in  whom  you  have  con- 
fidence to  put  me  to  sleep." 

Before  a  confrere  she  was  certain  he  would  not  ask 
her  dangerous  questions. 

He  understood  that  she  wished  to  escape  him. 

"  Afraid  of  what  ?  "  he  asked.  "  That  I  shall  ask  you 
questions  about  the  past,  concerning  your  life  before  we 
knew  each  other,  and  demand  a  confession  that  would 
wound  my  love?" 

"  O  Victor! "  she  cried,  distracted.  "  What  more  cruel 
[329] 


HECTOR  MALOT 

wound  could  you  give  me  than  these  words  ?  My  con- 
fession! It  comprises  three  words:  I  love  you;  I  have 
never  loved  any  one  but  you;  I  shall  never  love  any 
one  but  you.  I  have  no  past;  my  life  began  with  my 
love." 

He  could  not  press  it  without  showing  the  impor- 
tance that  he  attached  to  it. 

"I  do  not  insist,"  he  said;  "it  is  a  way  like  any  other, 
but  better.  You  do  not  wish  it,  and  we  will  not  talk 
of  it." 

But  he  )delded  too  quickly  for  her  to  hope  that  he 
renounced  his  project,  and  she  remained  under  the  in- 
fluence of  a  stupefying  terror.  What  would  she  say  if 
he  made  her  talk  ?  Everything,  possibly.  She  did  not 
even  know  what  thoughts  were  hidden  in  the  depths  of 
her  brain,  and  she  knew  absolutely  nothing  of  this  forced 
somnambulism  with  which  she  was  threatened. 

At  this  time  the  works  of  the  school  of  Nancy  on  sleep, 
hypnotism,  and  suggestion,  had  not  yet  been  published, 
or  at  least  the  book  which  served  as  their  starting-point 
was  not  known,  and  she  knew  nothing  of  processes  that 
were  employed  to  provoke  the  hypnotic  sleep.  As  soon 
as  her  husband  left  the  house  she  looked  for  some  book 
in  the  library  that  would  enlighten  her.  But  the  dic- 
tionary that  she  found  gave  only  obscure  or  confused 
instructions  in  which  she  floundered.  The  only  exact 
point  that  struck  her  was  the  method  employed  to  pro- 
duce sleep;  to  make  the  subject  look  at  a  brilliant  ob- 
ject placed  from  fifteen  to  twenty  centimetres  in  front 
of  the  eyes.  If  this  were  true  she  had  no  fear  of  ever 
being  put  to  sleep. 

[  330  ] 


CONSCIENCE 

However,  she  was  not  reassured;  and  when  a  few 
days  later  at  a  dinner  she  found  herself  seated  next  to 
one  of  her  husband's  coiifrh-es,  who  she  knew  inter- 
ested himself  in  somnambulism,  she  had  the  courage  to 
conquer  her  usual  timidity  concerning  medicine,  and 
questioned  him. 

"Are  there  not  persons  with  certain  diseases  who  can 
be  put  into  a  state  of  somnambulism  ?  " 

"  It  was  formerly  believed  by  the  public  and  by  many 
physicians  that  only  persons  afflicted  with  hysteria  and 
nervous  troubles  could  be  put  to  sleep  in  this  way,  but 
it  was  a  mistake;  artificial  somnambulism  may  be  pro- 
duced on  many  subjects  who  arc  perfectly  healthy." 

"  Is  the  will  preserved  in  sleep  ?  " 

"The  subject  only  preserves  the  spontaneity  and  will 
that  his  hypnotizer  leaves  him,  who  at  his  pleasure 
makes  him  sad,  gay,  angry,  or  tender,  and  plays  with 
his  soul  as  with  an  instrument."* 

"But  that  is  frightful." 

"  Curious,  at  least.  It  is  certain  that  there  is  a  local 
paralysis  of  such  or  such  a  cell,  the  study  of  which  is  the 
Starting-point  of  many  interesting  discoveries." 

"When  he  wakes,  does  the  subject  remember  what 
he  has  said?" 

"There  is  a  difference  of  opinion  on  this  point.  Some 
say  yes,  and  others  no.  As  for  me,  I  beUeve  the  mem- 
ory depends  upon  the  degree  of  sleep :  with  a  light  sleep 
there  is  remembrance,  but  with  a  profound  sleep  the 
subject  does  not  remember  what  he  has  said  or  heard 
or  done." 

*  H.  Beaunis:  Somnambulism  frovoqui. 
[331] 


HECTOR  MALOT 

She  would  have  liked  to  continue,  and  her  compan- 
ion, glad  to  talk  of  what  interested  him,  would  willingly 
have  said  more,  but  she  saw  her  husband  at  the  other 
end  of  the  table  watching  them  by  fits  and  starts,  and 
fearing  that  he  would  suspect  the  subject  of  their  con- 
versation she  remained  silent. 

What  she  had  just  learned  seemed  to  her  frightful. 
But,  at  least,  as  she  would  not  let  herself  be  hypnotized 
she  had  nothing  to  fear;  and  remembering  what  she 
had  read,  she  promised  herself  that  she  would  never 
let  him  place  her  in  a  position  where  he  could  put 
her  to  sleep.  It  was  during  the  sleep  that  the  will 
of  the  hypnotizer  controlled  that  of  the  subject,  not 
before. 

Resting  on  this  belief,  and  also  on  his  not  having 
again  spoken  of  sending  her  to  sleep,  she  was  reassured. 
Was  not  this  a  sign  that  he  accepted  her  opposition  and 
renounced  his  idea  of  provoked  somnambulism  ? 

But  she  deceived  herself. 

One  night  when  she  had  gone  to  bed  at  her  usual 
hour  while  he  remained  at  his  work,  she  awoke  sud- 
denly and  saw  him  standing  near  her,  looking  at  her 
with  eyes  whose  fixed  stare  frightened  her. 

' '  What  is  the  matter  ?    What  do  you  want  ?  " 

"Nothing,  I  want  nothing;  I  am  going  to  bed." 
,  In  spite  of  the  strangeness  of  his  glance  she  did  not 
persist ;  questions  would  have  taught  her  nothing.  And 
besides,  now  that  he  no  longer  went  to  bed  at  the  same 
time  as  she  did,  there  was  nothing  extraordinary  in  his 
attitude. 

But  a  few  days  from  that  she  woke  again  in  the  night 
[  332  ] 


CONSCIENCE 

with  a  feeling  of  distress,  and  saw  him  leaning  over  her 
as  if  he  would  envelop  her  in  his  arms. 

This  time,  frightened  as  she  was,  she  had  the  strength 
to  say  nothing,  but  her  anguish  was  the  more  intense. 
Did  he  then  wish  to  hypnotize  her  while  she  slept? 
Was  it  possible?  Then  the  dictionary  had  deceived 
her? 

In  truth  it  was  while  she  slept  that  Saniel  tried  to 
transform  her  natural  into  an  artificial  sleep.  Would 
he  succeed?  He  knew  nothing  about  it,  for  the  ex- 
perience was  new.     But  he  risked  it. 

The  first  time,  instead  of  putting  her  into  a  state  of 
somnambulism,  he  awoke  her;  the  second,  he  succeeded 
no  better;  the  third,  when  he  saw  that  after  a  certain 
time  she  did  not  open  her  eyes,  he  supposed  that  she 
was  asleep.  To  assure  himself,  he  raised  her  arm, 
which  remained  in  the  air  until  he  placed  it  on  the  bed. 
Then  taking  her  two  hands,  he  turned  them  backward, 
and  withdrawing  his  own,  the  impulsion  which  he  gave 
lasted  until  he  checked  it.  Her  face  had  an  expression 
of  calmness  and  tranquillity  that  it  had  not  had  for  a 
long  time;  she  was  the  pretty  PhilHs  of  other  days,  with 
the  sprightly  glance. 

"To-morrow  I  will  make  you  sleep  at  the  same 
time,"  he  said,  "and  you  will  talk." 

The  next  night  he  put  her  to  sleep  even  more  easily, 
but  when  he  questioned  her  she  resisted. 

"No,"  she  said,  "I  will  not  speak;  it  is  horrible.  I 
will  not,  I  cannot." 

He  insisted,  but  she  would  not. 

"Very  well,  so  be  it,"  he  said;  "not  to-day,  tp-mo^- 
I333] 


HECTOR  MALOT 

row.     But  to-morrow  I  wish  you  to  speak,  and  you  shall 
not  resist  me;  I  will  it!" 

If  he  did  not  insist  it  was  not  only  because  he  knew 
that  habit  was  necessary  to  make  her  submit  to  his  will 
without  being  able  to  defend  herself,  but  because  he  was 
ignorant  whether,  when  she  awoke,  she  had  any  mem- 
ory of  what  happened  in  her  sleep,  which  was  an  im- 
portant point. 

The  next  night  she  was  the  same  as  she  had  been  the 
previous  evening,  and  nothing  indicated  that  she  was 
conscious  of  her  provoked  sleep,  any  more  than  what 
she  said  in  this  sleep.    He  could  then  continue. 

This  time  she  went  to  sleep  sooner  and  more  easily 
than  usual,  and  her  face  took  the  expression  of  tran- 
quillity and  repose  he  had  seen  the  night  before.  Would 
she  answer?  And  if  she  consented,  would  she  speak 
sincerely,  without  attempting  to  weaken  or  falsify  the 
truth?  Emotion  made  his  voice  tremble  when  he  put 
the  first  question;  it  was  his  life,  his  peace,  the  happi- 
ness of  both  which  decided  him. 

"Where  do  you  suffer?"  he  asked. 

"I  do  not  suffer." 

"Yet  you  are  agitated,  often  melancholy  or  uneasy; 
you  do  not  sleep  well.    What  troubles  you  ?  " 

"I  am  afraid." 

"  Afraid  of  what  ?    Of  whom  ?  " 

"Of  you!" 

He  trembled. 

"Afraid  of  me!  Do  you  think  that  I  could  hurt 
you?" 

"No." 

[  334  ] 


CONSCIENCE 

His  tightened  heart  relaxed. 

"  Then  why  are  you  afraid  ?  " 

"Because  there  are  things  in  you  that  frighten  me." 

"What  things?    Be  exact." 

"The  change  that  has  taken  place  in  your  temper, 
your  character,  and  your  habits." 

"  And  how  do  these  changes  make  you  uneasy  ?  " 

"They  indicate  a  serious  situation." 

"What  situation?" 

" I  do  not  know;  I  have  never  stated  exactly." 

"Why  not?" 

"  Because  I  was  afraid ;  and  I  closed  my  eyes  so  that 
I  might  not  see." 

"See  what?" 

"The  explanation  of  all  that  is  mysterious  in  your 
life." 

"  When  did  you  notice  the  mystery  in  my  life  ?  " 

"At  the  time  of  Caffi^'s  death;  and  before,  when  you 
told  me  that  you  could  kill  him  without  any  remorse." 

"Do  you  know  who  killed  Caffi^ ? " 

"No." 

His  relief  was  so  great  that  for  several  moments  he 
forgot  to  continue  his  interrogations.  Then  he  went  on : 
"And  after?" 

"A  little  before  Madame  Dammauville's  death,  when 
you  became  irritable  and  furious  without  cause;  when 
you  told  me  to  go  because  you  did  not  wish  to  see  Ma- 
dame Dammauville ;  when,  the  night  before  her  death, 
you  were  so  tender,  and  asked  me  not  to  judge  you 
without  recalling  that  hour." 

"Yet  you  have  judged  me." 
[335] 


HECTOR  MALOT 

"Never.  When  worry  urged  me,  my  love  checked 
me." 

"What  provoked  this  uneasiness  outside  of  these 
facts?" 

"Your  manner  of  living  since  our  marriage;  your  ac- 
cesses of  anger  and  of  tenderness;  your  fear  of  being  ob- 
served; your  agitation  at  night;  your  complaints " 

"I  talked?"  he  cried. 

"Never  distinctly;  you  groan  often,  and  moan,  pro- 
nouncing broken  words  without  sense,  unintelligi- 
ble  " 

His  anguish  was  violent;  when  he  recovered  he  con- 
tinued : 

"What  is  it  in  this  way  of  living  that  has  made  you 
uneasy?" 

"Your  constant  care  not  to  commit  yourself " 

*  *  Commit  myself  how  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  know " 

"What  else?" 

"The  anger  that  you  show,  or  the  embarrassment, 
when  the  name  of  Caffie  is  pronounced,  Madame  Dam- 
mauville's,  and  Florentin's " 

"And  you  conclude  that  my  anger  on  hearing  these 
three  names " 

"Nothing — I  am  afraid " 


[336] 


CHAPTER  XLIII 

THE  TERRIBLE  REVELATION 

[IS  confession  threw  him  into  a  state 
of  confusion  and  agitation,  for  if  it  did 
not  go  beyond  what  he  feared,  yet  it 
revealed  a  terrible  situation. 

Cleariy,  as  in  an  open  book,  he  read 
her;  if  she  did  not  know  all,  she  was 
but  one  step  from  the  truth,  and  if  she 
had  not  taken  this  step,  it  was  because 
her  love  restrained  her.  If  her  love  had  been  less 
strong,  less  powerful,  she  certainly  would  not  have 
withstood  the  proofs  that  pressed  on  her  from  all 
sides. 

But  because  she  had  held  back  so  long,  he  must  not 
conclude  that  the  struggle  would  be  continued  in  this 
way,  and  that  a  more  violent  blow,  a  stronger  proof 
than  the  others,  would  not  open  her  eyes  in  spite  of 
herself. 

It  only  needed  an  imprudence,  a  carelessness  on  his 
part,  and  unluckily  he  could  no  longer  be  relied  on. 

From  what  he  had  just  learned  it  would  be  easy  to 
watch  himself  closely,  and  to  avoid  dangerous  subjects, 
those  that  she  described  to  him;  but  if  he  could  guard 
his  words  and  looks  during  the  day,  neither  saying  nor 
leMing  anything  appear  that  was  an  accusation,  not  con- 

/  22  [337] 

\ 


HECTOR  MALOT 

firming  the  suspicions  against  which  she  struggled,  he 
could  not  do  it  at  night. 

He  had  not  talked,  and  when  she  answered  negatively 
to  his  question,  she  lifted  a  terribly  heavy  weight  from 
his  heart.  But  he  had  groaned  and  moaned,  he  had 
pronounced  broken  words  without  sense  and  unintelli- 
gible, and  there  was  the  danger. 

What  was  necessary  to  make  these  sighs,  these  groans, 
these  broken  and  unintelligible  words  become  distinct 
and  take  a  meaning?  A  nothing,  an  accident,  since 
his  real  cerebral  tendency  placed  him  up  to  a  certain 
point  in  a  somnambulistic  state.  Was  this  tendency 
congenital  with  him  or  acquired?  He  did  not  know. 
Before  the  agitated  nights  after  Madame  Dammau- 
ville's  death  and  Florentin's  condemnation,  the  idea  had 
never  occurred  to  him  that  he  might  talk  in  his  sleep. 
But  now  he  had  the  proof  that  the  vague  fears  which 
had  tormented  him  on  this  subject  were  only  too  well 
founded ;  he  had  talked,  and  if  the  words  that  escaped 
were  not  now  comprehensible,  they  might  become  so. 

Without  having  made  a  special  study  of  sleep,  natu- 
ral or  induced,  he  knew  that  in  the  case  of  natural  som- 
nambulists a  hypnotic  sleep  is  easily  produced,  and  that 
while  holding  a  conversation  with  a  subject  who  talks 
in  his  sleep  one  may  readily  hypnotize  him.  Without 
doubt  he  need  not  fear  this  from  Phillis;  but  it  was  pos- 
sible that  some  night  when  incoherent  words  escaped 
him  she  would  not  be  able  to  resist  the  temptation  to 
enter  into  a  conversation  with  him,  and  to  lead  him  to 
confess  what  she  wished  to  know — what  the  love  that 
she  felt  for  her  brother  would  drive  her  to  wish  to  leam. 

[338] 

L 


CONSCIENCE 

If  this  opportunity  presented  itself,  would  the  love  for 
her  brother  or  for  her  husband  carry  her  away?  If  she 
questioned  him,  what  would  he  not  say  ? 

For  the  first  time  he  asked  himself  if  he  had  done 
right  to  marry,  and  if,  on  the  contrary,  he  had  not  com- 
mitted a  mad  imprudence  in  introducing  a  woman  into 
a  life  so  tormented  as  his.  He  had  asked  calmness  from 
this  woman,  and  now  she  brought  him  terror. 

To  tell  the  truth,  she  was  dangerous  only  at  night; 
and  if  he  found  a  way  to  occupy  another  room  he  would 
have  nothing  to  fear  from  her  during  the  day,  on  con- 
dition that  he  held  himself  rigorously  on  the  defensive. 
Loving  him  as  she  did,  she  would  resist  the  curiosity 
that  drew  her;  if  uneasiness  drove  her,  her  love  would 
restrain  her,  as  she  herself  had  said ;  little  by  little  this 
uneasiness  and  curiosity,  being  no  longer  excited,  would 
die  out,  and  they  would  again  enjoy  the  sweet  days  that 
followed  their  marriage. 

But  in  the  present  circumstances  this  way  was  diffi- 
cult to  find,  for  to  propose  another  room  to  Phillis  would 
be  equal  to  telling  her  that  he  was  afraid  of  her,  and  con- 
sequently it  would  give  her  a  new  mystery  to  study.  He 
reflected,  and  starting  with  the  idea  that  the  proposi- 
tion of  two  rooms  must  come  from  Phillis,  he  arranged 
a  plan  which,  it  seemed  to  him,  would  accompHsh  what 
he  wished. 

Ignorant  of  the  fact  that  she  had  been  hypnotized, 
and  not  remembering  that  she  had  talked,  without 
doubt  Phillis  still  feared  that  he  would  hypnotize  her; 
he  would  threaten  it  again,  and  surely  she  would  find  a 
way  to  defend  herself  and  escape  from  him. 

[  339  ] 


HECTOR  MALOT 

This  is  what  happened.  The  next  day,  when  he  told 
her  decidedly  that  he  wished  to  put  her  to  sleep  in  order 
that  he  might  learn  what  troubled  her,  she  showed  the 
same  fright  as  on  the  first  time. 

"All  that  you  have  asked  of  me,  everything  that  you 
have  desired,  I  have  wished  as  you  and  with  you;  but 
I  will  never  consent  to  this." 

"Your  resistance  is  absurd;  I  will  not  yield  to  it." 

"You  shall  not  put  me  to  sleep  against  my  will." 

"Easily." 

"It  is  not  possible." 

Without  replying,  he  took  a  book  from  the  library, 
and  turning  over  the  leaves,  he  read:  "Is  it  possible 
to  make  a  sleeping  person,  without  awaking  him,  pass 
from  the  natural  to  the  hypnotic  sleep  ?  The  thing  is 
possible,  at  least  with  certain  subjects." 

Then  handing  her  the  book : 

"You  see  that  to  put  you  to  sleep  artificially  I  need 
only  the  opportunity  of  finding  you  sleeping  naturally. 
It  is  very  simple." 

"That  would  be  odious." 

"Those  are  merely  words." 

He  threw  her  into  such  a  state  of  terror  that  she  kept 
awake  all  night,  and  as  he  would  not  sleep  for  fear  of 
talking,  he  felt  that  she  exerted  every  faculty  to  keep 
awake.  But  had  he  not  gone  too  far?  And  by  this 
threat  would  he  not  drive  her  to  some  desperate  act  ? 
If  she  should  escape,  if  she  deserted  him — what  would 
become  of  him  without  her?  Was  she  not  his  whole 
life  ?  But  he  reassured  himself  by  saying  that  she  loved 
him  too  much  ever  to  consent  to  a  separation.    With- 

[340] 


CONSCIENCE 

out  doubt,  she  herself  would  come  to  think  as  he  wished 
her  to  think. 

And  yet  when  he  returned  home  in  the  evening  she 
told  him  that  her  mother  was  not  well,  and  begged  him 
to  examine  her.  This  examination  proved  that  Ma- 
dame Cormier  was  in  her  usual  health;  but  she  com- 
plained that  her  breath  failed  her — during  the  day  she 
had  feared  syncope. 

"If  you  are  willing,"  Phillis  said,  "I  will  sleep  near 
mamma.  I  am  afraid  of  not  hearing  her  at  night,  and 
she  is  sufifering." 

He  began  by  refusing,  then  he  consented  to  this  ar- 
rangement ;  and  to  thank  him  for  it  she  stayed  with  him 
in  his  office,  affectionate,  full  of  tenderness  and  caresses, 
until  he  went  to  his  room. 

He  was  then  free  to  sleep  or  not ;  whether  he  groaned 
or  talked  she  could  not  hear  him,  since  there  was  no 
communicating  door  between  his  room  and  that  of  his 
mother-in-law;  his  voice  certainly  would  not  penetrate 
the  partition. 

Who  could  have  told  him  on  the  night  that  he 
decided  to  marry,  that  he  would  come  to  such  a  pass — 
to  be  afraid,  to  hide  himself  from  her  who  brought  him 
the  calmness  of  sleep ;  and  that  by  his  fault,  by  a  chain 
of  imprudences  and  stupidities,  as  if  it  were  written  that 
in  everything  he  would  owe  his  sufferings  to  himself, 
and  that  if  he  ever  succumbed  to  the  whirlwind  that 
swept  him  along,  it  would  be  by  his  own  deed,  by  his 
own  hand  ?  At  last  he  had  assured  the  tranquillity  of 
his  nights,  and  as  a  further  precaution,  although  he  did 
not  fear  that  Philhs  would  enter  his  room  while  he  slept, 

[341] 


HECTOR  MALOT 

to  surprise  him — she  who  dared  not  look  in  the  face 
what  suspicion  showed  her — he  locked  his  door.  Nat- 
urally, Phillis  could  not  always  sleep  with  her  mother; 
but  he  would  find  a  way  to  suggest  frankly  their  sleep- 
ing apart,  and  surely  he  could  find  one  in  the  store- 
house of  medicine. 

These  cares  and  similar  fears  were  not  of  a  nature  to 
dispose  him  to  sleep,  and  besides  for  a  long  time  he  had 
suffered  from  an  exasperating  nervous  insomnia.  As 
the  night  was  warm  he  thought  a  little  fresh  air  would 
calm  him,  and  he  opened  the  window;  if  this  freshness 
did  not  calm  him,  at  least  it  would  make  him  sleep. 

Obliged  to  improvise  a  bed  in  her  mother's  room, 
Phillis  placed  it  against  the  partition  that  separated  her 
from  her  husband,  but  without  preconcerted  intention, 
simply  by  accident,  because  it  was  the  only  place  where 
she  could  put  the  bed.  A  little  after  midnight  an  un- 
usual noise  awoke  her;  she  sat  up  to  listen  and  to  re- 
cover herself.  It  seemed  as  if  this  noise  came  from  her 
husband's  room.  Alarmed,  she  placed  her  ear  against 
the  partition.  She  was  not  deceived;  they  were  stifled 
groans,  moans  that  were  repeated  at  short  intervals. 

Carefully  yet  quickly  she  left  her  bed,  and  as  the  dawn 
was  already  shining  in  the  windows,  she  was  able  to 
leave  the  room  without  making  any  noise.  Reaching 
the  door  of  her  husband's  room  she  listened;  she  was  not 
deceived ;  they  were  indeed  groans,  but  louder  and  sad- 
der than  those  she  had  so  often  heard  during  the  night. 
She  tried  the  door,  but  it  was  evidently  locked  on  the 
inside.  What  was  the  matter  with  him?  She  must 
know,  must  go  to  him,  and  give  him  relief.    She  thought 

[  342  ] 


CONSCIENCE 

of  knocking,  of  shaking  the  door;  but  as  he  did  not 
reply  when  she  tried  to  open  it,  it  was  because  he 
did  not  hear  or  did  not  wish  to  hear.  Then  she 
thought  of  the  terrace;  from  there  she  could  see  what 
happened,  and  if  it  were  necessary  she  would  break  a 
pane  to  enter. 

She  found  the  window  open  and  saw  her  husband  on 
the  bed,  sleeping,  his  head  turned  toward  her;  she 
stopped  and  asked  herself  if  she  should  cross  the  thresh- 
old and  wake  him. 

At  this  moment,  with  closed  lips,  he  pronounced  sev- 
eral words  more  distinctly  than  those  that  had  so  many 
times  escaped  him :  "  Phillis — forgive." 

He  dreamed  of  her.  Poor,  dear  Victor!  for  what  did 
he  wish  her  to  pardon  him?  Doubtless  for  having 
threatened  to  hypnotize  her. 

Overcome  by  this  proof  of  love  she  put  her  head 
through  the  opening  of  the  window  to  give  him  a  look 
before  returning  to  her  mother,  but  on  seeing  his  face  in 
the  full  white  light  of  the  morning,  she  was  frightened ; 
it  expressed  the  most  violent  sorrow,  the  features  con- 
vulsed with  anguish  and  horror  at  the  same  time.  Sure- 
ly he  was  ill.  She  must  wake  him.  Just  as  she  took  a 
step  toward  him  he  began  to  speak:  "Your  brother— 
or  me?" 

She  stopped  as  if  thunderstruck,  then  instinctively 
she  drew  back  and  clung  to  the  window  in  the  vestibule 
to  keep  herself  from  falling,  repeating  those  two  words 
that  she  had  just  heard,  not  understanding,  not  wishing 
to  understand. 

Instead  of  returning  to  her  mother,  trembling  and 
[  343  ] 


HECTOR  MALOT 

holding  on  to  the  wall  she  entered  the  parlor  and  let  her- 
self fall  into  a  chair,  prostrated,  crushed. 

"  Your  brother — or  me  ?  " 

This  was,  then,  the  truth,  the  frightful  truth  that  she 
had  never  wished  to  see. 

She  stayed  there  until  the  noises  in  the  street  warned 
her  that  it  was  getting  late,  and  she  might  be  surprised. 
Then  she  returned  to  her  mother. 

"I  am  going  out,"  she  said;  "I  will  return  at  half-past 
eight  or  nine  o'clock." 

"But  your  husband  will  not  see  you  before  going  to 
the  hospital." 

"  You  will  tell  him  that  I  have  gone  out." 

She  returned  at  half-past  nine.  Madame  Cormier 
had  finished  dressing. 

"At  last  you  have  come,"  she  said. 

But  at  sight  of  her  daughter's  face  she  saw  that  some- 
thing had  happened.  "My  God!  What  is  the  mat- 
ter?" she  asked,  trembling. 

"Something  serious — very  serious,  but  unfortunately 
it  is  irreparable.     We  must  leave  here,  never  to  return." 

' '  Your  husband ' ' 

"You  must  never  speak  to  me  of  him.  This  the  only 
thing  I  ask  of  you." 

"Alas!  I  understand.  It  is  what  I  foresaw,  what  I 
said  would  happen.  You  cannot  bear  the  contempt  that 
he  shows  us  on  account  of  your  brother." 

"We  must  hereafter  be  strangers  to  each  other,  and 
this  is  why  we  leave  this  house." 

"My  God !    At  my  age,  to  drag  my  bones " 

"I  have  engaged  a  lodging  at  the  Temes;  a  wagon 
[344] 


CONSCIENCE 

will  come  to  take  the  furniture  that  belongs  to  us,  what 
we  brought  here,  only  that.  We  will  tell  the  concierge 
that  we  are  going  to  the  country.  As  for  Josephine, 
you  need  not  fear  indiscreet  questions,  for  I  have  given 
her  a  day  ofif." 

"But  the  money?" 

"I  have  two  hundred  francs  from  the  sale  of  my  last 
picture;  that  is  enough  for  the  present.  Before  they  are 
gone  I  shall  have  painted  and  sold  another;  do  not 
worry,  we  shall  have  all  we  need." 

All  this  was  said  in  a  hard  but  resolute  tone. 

A  ring  of  the  bell  interrupted  them.  It  was  the  ex- 
press wagon. 

"See  that  they  do  not  take  what  does  not  belong  to 
us,"  PhilHs  said.  "While  they  fill  their  wagon  I  will 
write  in  the  parlor." 

At  the  end  of  an  hour  the  wagon  was  ready.  Madame 
Cormier  entered  the  parlor  to  tell  her  daughter. 

"I  have  finished,"  Phillis  said. 

Having  placed  her  letter  in  an  envelope,  she  laid  it 
in  full  view  on  Saniel's  desk. 

"Now  let  us  go,"  she  said. 

And  as  her  mother  sighed,  while  walking  with  diflS- 
culty: 

"Lean  on  me,  dear  mamma,  you  know  I  am  strong." 


[345] 


CHAPTER  XLIV 

AFTER  LONG  YEARS 

|ANIEL  did  not  return  until  quite  late 
in  the  afternoon.  When  he  opened 
the  door  with  his  key  he  was  sur- 
prised at  not  seeing  his  wife  run  to 
him  and  kiss  him. 

"She  is  painting,"  he  said  to  him- 
self, "she  did  not  hear  me." 
He  passed  into  the  parlor,  convinced 
that  he  would  find  her  at  her  easel ;  but  he  did  not  see 
her,  and  the  easel  was  not  in  its  usual  place,  there  nor 
anywhere  else. 

He  knocked  at  the  door  of  Madame  Cormier's 
room;  there  was  no  reply;  he  knocked  louder  a  sec- 
ond time,  and  after  waiting  a  moment  he  entered.  The 
room  was  empty;  there  was  no  bed,  no  furniture,  no 
one. 

Stupefied,  he  looked  around  him,  then  returning  to 
the  vestibule  he  called : ' '  Phillis !  Phillis ! ' ' 

There  was  no  reply.  He  ran  to  the  kitchen,  no 
one  was  there;  he  went  into  his  office,  no  one  there. 
But  as  he  looked  about  him,  he  saw  Phillis's  letter 
on  his  desk,  and  his  heart  leaped;  he  grasped  it 
eagerly,  and  opened  it  with  a  trembling  hand.  It  was 
as  follows: 

[346] 


CONSCIENCE 

"  I  have  gone,  never  to  return.  My  despair  and  dis- 
gust of  life  are  such,  that  without  my  mother  and  the 
poor  being  who  is  so  far  away,  I  should  kill  myself;  but 
in  spite  of  the  horror  of  my  position  I  was  obliged  to  re- 
flect, and  I  do  not  wish  to  aggravate  by  folly  the  wick- 
edness that  is  going  on  about  me.  My  mother  is  no 
longer  young;  she  is  ill  and  has  suffered  cruelly.  Not 
only  do  I  owe  it  to  her  to  brighten  her  old  age  by  my 
presence,  by  the  material  and  moral  support  that  I  can 
give  her,  but  she  must  have  faith  that  I  am  there  to  re- 
place her,  and  to  open  my  arms  to  her  son,  to  my  brother. 
The  least  that  I  can  do  for  them  is  to  wait  courageously 
for  him;  and,  however  weary,  terrible,  or  frightful  my 
life  may  be  hereafter,  I  shall  bear  it  so  that  the  unfor- 
tunate, the  pariah,  whom  a  pitiless  fate  has  pursued, 
will  find  on  his  return  a  hearth,  a  home,  a  friend.  This 
will  be  my  only  object,  my  reason  for  living;  and  in 
order  to  save  myself  from  sluggishness  and  weariness, 
my  thoughts  will  always  be  on  the  time  when  he  will 
return,  he  whom  I  will  call  my  child,  and  whom  my  love 
must  save  and  cure.  I  know  that  long  years  separate 
me  from  that  day,  and  that  until  it  comes  my  broken 
heart  will  never  have  a  moment  of  repose;  but  I  shall 
employ  this  time  in  working  for  him,  for  the  brother, 
for  the  child,  for  the  cherished  being  who  will  come  to 
me  aged  and  desperate;  and  I  wish  that  he  may  yet  be- 
lieve in  something  good,  that  he  will  not  imagine  every- 
thing in  this  world  is  unjust  and  infamous,  for  he  will 
return  to  me  weighed  down  by  twenty  years  of  shame, 
of  degrading  and  undeserved  shame.  How  will  he  bear 
these  twenty  years?    What  efforts  must  I  not  make 

[347] 


HECTOR  MALOT 

to  prove  to  him  that  he  should  not  abandon  himself  to 
despair,  and  that  life  often  offers  the  remedy,  com- 
passion to  the  most  profound,  to  the  most  unjust  human 
sorrows?  How  can  I  make  him  beheve  that?  How 
lead  his  poor  heart,  closed  to  confidence,  to  feeling,  to 
the  tears  that  alone  can  relieve  it?  God  who  has  so 
sorely  tried  me,  without  doubt  will  come  to  my  aid,  and 
will  inspire  me  with  words  of  consolation,  will  show  me 
the  path  to  follow,  and  give  me  the  strength  to  perse- 
vere. Have  I  not  already  to  thank  Him  for  being  alone 
in  the  world,  outside  of  a  mother  and  brother  who  will 
not  betray  me?  I  have  no  children,  and  I  am  spared 
the  terror  of  seeing  a  soul  growing  in  evil,  an  intelligence 
escaping  from  me  to  follow  the  path  of  infamy  or  dis- 
honor. I  leave,  then,  as  I  came.  I  was  a  poor  girl, 
I  go  away  a  poor  woman.  I  have  taken  the  clothing 
and  personal  effects  that  I  brought  into  our  common 
home,  nothing  that  was  bought  with  your  money;  and 
I  forbid  you  to  interfere  with  my  wish  in  this  question 
of  material  things,  as  well  as  in  my  resolution  to  fly 
from  you.  Nothing  can  ever  reunite  us;  nothing  shall 
reunite  us,  no  consideration,  no  necessity.  I  reject  the 
past,  this  guilty  past,  the  responsibihty  of  which  weighs 
so  heavily  on  my  conscience,  and  I  should  like  to  lose  the 
memory  of  the  detested  time.  It  would  be  impossible 
for  me  to  accept  the  struggle,  or  supplications,  if  you 
think  it  expedient  to  make  any.  I  have  cut  our  bonds, 
and  hereafter  we  shall  be  as  far  apart  as  if  one  of  us 
were  dead,  or  even  farther.  Have  no  scruples,  then,  in 
leaving  me  alone  to  face  a  new  life,  a  beginning  that  may 
appear  difficult  to  one  not  situated  as  I  am.    The  trials 

[348] 


CONSCIENCE 

of  former  times  were  good  for  me,  since  they  accus- 
tomed me  to  the  difficulties  of  work.  The  desolation 
of  to-day  will  sustain  me,  in  the  sense  that  having  suf- 
fered all  I  can  suffer,  I  no  longer  fear  some  discourag- 
ing catastrophe  that  will  check  me  in  my  resolutions. 
In  order  not  to  compromise  you,  and  more  fully  to  be- 
come myself  again,  I  shall  take  my  family  name — a  dis- 
honored name — but  I  shall  bear  it  without  shame.  I 
shall  live  obscurely,  absorbed  in  work  and  in  trying  to 
forget  your  existence;  do  the  same  yourself.  If  you 
think  of  the  past,  you  will  find,  perhaps,  that  I  am  hard; 
yet  this  departure  is  not  an  egotistic  desertion.  I  am  no 
good  to  you,  and  the  repose  that  you  want  would  shun 
you  hereafter  in  my  presence.  On  the  contrary,  strive 
for  forgetfulness,  as  I  shall.  If  you  contrive  to  wipe 
out  of  your  life  the  part  that  is  associated  with  me,  per- 
haps you  will  be  able  to  banish  the  remainder,  and  to 
recover  some  of  the  calm  of  other  days.  I  can  no 
longer  remember  that  I  have  loved  you,  for  my  position 
is  such  that  I  have  not  the  refuge  of  memory ;  at  my  age 
I  must  remain  without  a  past  as  without  a  future;  the 
consolation  of  the  unfortunate  is  lost  to  me  with  every- 
thing else.  I  cannot  rise  out  of  my  sorrow  to  try  to  find 
one  hour  when  life  was  sweet  to  me ;  those  hours,  on  the 
contrary,  make  me  tremble,  and  I  reproach  myself  for 
them  as  if  they  were  a  crime.  Thus,  whichever  way  I 
turn,  I  find  only  sadness  and  sharp  regrets;  everything 
is  blighted,  dishonored  for  me." 

Standing  in  the  middle  of  his  office  he  read  this  hastily 
written  letter  breathlessly.  Arrived  at  the  end  he  looked 
about  him  vaguely.    His  chair  was  near  his  desk ;  he  let 

[349I 


HECTOR  MALOT 

himself  fall  into  it  and  remained  there  prostrated,  hold- 
ing the  letter  in  his  shaking  hand. 
"Alone!" 

It  was  an  October  afternoon,  dark  and  muddy;  in 
the  Rue  des  Saints-Peres,  in  front  of  the  houses  that 
hide  the  Charity  Hospital,  coupes  were  standing,  and 
their  long  line  extended  to  the  Boulevard  Saint- Ger- 
main, where  the  coachmen,  having  left  their  seats,  talked 
together  like  persons  who  were  accustomed  to  meet  each 
other.  At  half -past  four  o'clock,  in  the  deepening  twi- 
light, men  with  grave  looks  and  dark  clothes — members 
of  the  Academy  of  Medicine — the  Tuesday  sitting  over, 
issued  from  the  porch,  and  entered  their  carriages. 
Some  of  them  walked  alone,  briskly,  in  a  great  hurry; 
others  demonstrated  a  skilful  tardiness,  stopping  to  talk 
politely  to  a  journalist,  and  to  give  him  notes  of  the 
day's  meeting,  or  continuing,  with  a  confrere  who  was 
not  an  Academician,  the  conversation  begun  in  the 
room  of  the  pas-perdus;  it  was  the  Bourse  of  consulta- 
tions that  was  just  closed.  Not  all  the  members  of 
the  Academy  have,  in  truth,  a  long  list  of  patients  to 
visit;  but  each  one  has  a  vote  to  give,  and  they  are  those 
whom  the  candidates  surround,  trying  to  win  them. 

One  of  the  Academicians  who  appeared  the  last  at  the 
top  of  the  steps  was  a  man  of  great  height  but  bent  fig- 
ure, with  hollow  cheeks  and  pale  face  lighted  by  pale 
blue  eyes  with  a  strange  expression,  both  hard  and  deso- 
late at  the  same  time.  He  advanced  alone,  and  his 
heavy  gait  and  dragging  step  gave  him  the  appearance 
of  a  man  sixty  years  of  age,  while  in  other  ways  he  re- 

[350] 


CONSCIENCE 

tained  a  certain  youthfulness.  It  was  Saniel,  twenty 
years  older. 

Without  exchanging  a  bow  or  a  hand-shake  with  any 
one,  he  descended  to  the  pavement  and  walked  to  the 
boulevard,  where  he  opened  the  door  of  a  coupi  whose 
interior  showed  a  complete  ambulant  library — a  writing 
table  with  paper,  ink,  and  lamp,  pockets  full  of  books 
and  pamphlets. 

Just  as  he  was  about  to  enter,  a  voice  stopped 
him. 

He  turned ;  it  was  one  of  his  old  pupils,  who  had  re- 
cently become  a  physician  in  the  suburb  of  Gentilly. 

''What  is  it?"  asked  Saniel. 

"I  want  to  ask  you  to  come  and  assist  me  in  a  curious 
case  of  spasms,  where  your  intervention  may  be  de- 
cisive." 

"Where?" 

"At  the  Maison-Blanche,  a  poor  woman.  What  day 
could  you  give  me  ?  " 

"Is  it  urgent?" 

"Yes." 

"In  that  case  I  will  go  at  once.  Give  the  address  to 
my  coachman,  and  get  in  with  me." 

But  at  this  moment  a  white-haired  man  dressed  in 
chestnut  velvet,  wearing  a  felt  hat  and  sabots,  came 
toward  them,  accompanied  by  two  young  men  with 
whom  he  discoursed  in  a  loud  tone  while  gesticulating. 
People  turned  to  look  at  them,  so  original  was  the  ap- 
pearance of  old  Brigard,  the  same  man  from  head  to 
foot  that  he  had  always  been. 

He  came  to  Saniel  with  outstretched  hands,  and 

[351] 


HECTOR  MALOT 

Saniel,  taking  off  his  hat,  received  him  with  marked  re- 
spect. 

"Enchanted  to  meet  you,"  Brigard  said,  "for  I  went 
to  your  office  yesterday  and  did  not  find  you." 

"Why  did  you  not  send  me  word  beforehand?  If 
you  need  me  I  am  at  your  disposal." 

"Thanks,  but  happily  I  do  not  need  your  advice, 
neither  for  myself  nor  my  family;  it  was  simply  that  I 
wished  to  see  you.  Arriving  at  your  house  before  your 
office  hours,  I  waited  in  your  reception-room  and  sev- 
eral patients  came  after  me — a  young  woman  who  ap- 
peared to  suffer  cruelly,  an  old  lady  who  was  extremely 
anxious,  and  lastly  a  man  who  had  some  nervous  dis- 
ease that  would  not  permit  him  to  sit  still.  And,  look- 
ing at  them,  I  said  to  myself  that  as  I  was  only  making 
a  friendly  visit  I  would  not  remain  and  prolong  the 
waiting  of  these  unfortunates  who  counted  the  minutes, 
so  I  came  away." 

"  May  I  ask  to  what  do  I  owe  the  honor  of  this  visit  ?  " 

The  two  young  men  who  accompanied  Brigard,  and 
Saniel's  old  pupil  discreetly  withdrew. 

"The  desire  to  present  you  my  congratulations.  When 
I  learned  of  your  candidature  to  the  Academy  of  Medi- 
cine I  said  to  myself:  Here  is  one  who  has  no  chance; 
friend  Saniel  has  originality  and  force;  he  has  succeeded 
brilliantly,  but  these  qualities  are  not  exactly  academic. 
I  was  deceived.  You  have  broken  open  the  doors, 
which  is  the  only  way  that  I  understand  of  entering  these 
places.  That  is  why  I  congratulate  you.  And,  be- 
sides, I  did  you  wrong  formerly " 

"Wrong?    You?" 


CONSCIENCE 

"I  accused  you  of  believing  yourself  stronger  than 
life ;  in  truth  you  were.    My  compliments ! " 

After  warmly  pressing  Saniel's  hands,  he  went  on  his 
way  with  his  two  disciples,  preaching  to  them. 

The  young  doctor  approached  Saniel. 

"  He  is  an  original  /'he  said . 

"A  happy  man!"  was  the  only  reply. 


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